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Bennett has requested the old police report.

I lock the screen.

“There’s an attorney—Michael Bennett—asking questions about Charles Whitaker.”

“So?”

“You have a remarkable amount of confidence for a man whose wife is asking questions about a murder committed the night he disappeared.”

My phone rings. I decline the call.

“What did you think was going to happen?”

“When?”

“Choose any point in the last six days.”

There are people who become frightened when they understand they have run out of room.

Reid becomes difficult.

It is one of the reasons Genevieve likes him.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to return the painting. Then you are going to turn yourself in. You’re going to admit your name is Reid Calloway and, after ten long years, finally tell the truth about Charles Whitaker and why you ran.”

Reid pushes his chair back.

“No.”

“Then you are going to die as whichever name you prefer.”

“You can’t blackmail me into prison.”

“I’m not blackmailing you.”

“What would you call it?”

“I’m giving you options.”

He glances toward the door.

“If I refuse?”

“You run again. Michael Bennett keeps asking questions. Lisbon keeps looking for its painting. Genevieve continues believing you can be protected.”

His attention returns to me.

“This isn’t just about Emma.”

“No.”

“Or the painting.”

“You don’t say.”

“This is about Genevieve.”

I consider denying it. Not because it would be useful. Because Reid would expect me to.