His voice softened.
“I’m calling the people you need. And Colin?”
“What?”
“Don’t go near that house.”
The call ended.
My name is Colin Sinclair. For most of my adult life, I had worked in places where people learned to keep secrets. Before I became a quiet suburban father, I had spent years as a federal investigator assigned to complex violent-crime cases. I had helped dismantle criminal organizations, protected witnesses, and testified against men who believed they were untouchable.
I had left that world behind when Maya was born.
I wanted a normal life. A house with a backyard. School mornings. Birthday cakes. A daughter who thought her father could fix anything with a toolbox and a little patience.
I had never told Isabelle the full extent of my former work. She knew I had been a federal investigator. She didn’t know the people I could still call, or how many of them would answer.
I had hoped I would never need those connections again.
