So he’d done what he had to do. But as the house had burned around them all—he’d fully intended he’d die that day, too—his son had cried out.
His son.
A man should have a son, after all. To pass on his legacy. Had Bentley died that day, all that was left of Philip Sullivan would have died, too. He would have been forgotten, invisible forever.
He just hadn’t been able to stomach that thought, so he’d carried his son outside.
A month later, Philip Sullivan had died, and he’d assumed the identity of the more successful twin. Become a man that he wasn’t, but that he had always known he was destined to be. Had he gone with the Sturvins when he’d been Ava’s age, who were far wealthier, perhaps he wouldn’t have become the man he had.
“Daddy, I want Mr. Bird. I want Mommy. Where is Mommy?”
She was what kept him breathing. Ava.
If he hadn’t made the choices he had, Ava wouldn’t be here today. He could forgive himself his mistakes, because of her. The daughter he and Rachel had created was his most perfect child yet.
Or she would be. After she had been trained.
Paul just tightened his hold on his daughter and rocked until she fell into a fitful sleep. Olivia was already out, cuddled up on the run-down army cot in the corner. She was a far more biddable child in every way than his Ava. Biddable, tidier, easier to handle, far less demanding.
But she would always be a poor second.
This cabin…it had been his and his twin’s during the few times a year they were together again. They’d camped and fished and played. Enjoyed the short days they had together.
No one had ever seen into his soul like his brother.
And Paul…he had somehow figured out what Philip had done. Paul had confronted him. Threatened him. Threatened to take Bentley away, too. To take Bentley and give him to Paul’s own wife. To Rachel.
While Philip rotted in a cage for what he had done to Holly and their daughters.
He hadn’t been able to let that happen.
So he had become Paul.
He’d become Paul. For years, he had lived as his brother.
But he’d failed at being Paul, too.
He looked at his ill daughters—even though Olivia had been fathered by his twin, she was still the daughter of his heart—and he knew.
He couldn’t keep failing his children. Not like he had before.
It was time.
Paul had to do something.
Before it was too late for all of them.
78
Kalani, one of the PAVAD tip-line supervisors, came into the conference room two hours after Jac had come up with her theory. Max knew with one look at the older woman’s face that she had found something. He’d sent all of the team to follow up on various leads. In a few moments, he’d be slipping off to meet with the director about the latest find in the Anderson case. “Kal?”
“Hello, Dr. Jones, I have something that might be relevant to your missing children case.” She handed him the standard tip-line report. “It was pretty specific. The clerk recalled seeing him on the news in the breakroom just ten minutes earlier. She’s a bit of a crime buff and pays attention. Especially when it’s missing kids.”
“Did this clerk see the girls?” Max asked, taking the report. They’d already taken hundreds of tips. None had been relevant.
One had even said they’d seen the ghost of Rachel Sturvin in their own dining room. On the table.
In the midst of a séance.
Then they’d claimed they were ancient vampires from Dardanos, Colorado. Rachel’s ghost was haunting a castle there, or something.
That had been one of the better tips they’d received so far.
“No. But the man she swears was Paul Sturvin, even right down to the birthmark on his neck—that’s what made this stand out to me—was buying children’s cold medicine and pediatric electrolytes and vapor rub. And two stuffed animals.”
“Everything a father would buy when his kids suddenly come down with colds.”
“Exactly. I must buy that stuff forty times a year with my kids. Seems like they bring everything possible home from school.”
“No kidding. Emery is just now getting over a virus herself.”
A virus she might very well have shared with the Sturvin girls. The autopsy reports had indicated that both Debbie Miller and Rachel Sturvin were in the early stages of having cold viruses. It wasn’t far out of the possibility that the girls were ill.
The neighbor had said the little one was feeling ill and wanting her mother.
Paul Sturvin/Philip Sullivan was out there now, with two sick little girls. Which could drastically slow him down.
Or send him toppling over the edge.
“We need to get someone out there to get the security camera footage of that pharmacy,” he said to the agent next to him. Barnes.
Damn it. Still the man was superfluous now. He should be able to pick up some damned security videos without screwing up. “Barnes, go. Take someone from auxiliary, if you need to. Or Whit. Get the footage, confirm it was him.”
“Got it. Jones…”
Max looked at him more fully. Barnes was far more disheveled than he’d been earlier. There was a tightness around the man’s eyes, a good deal of the cocky arrogance was somehow gone. Max’s phone buzzed. A text from the director, demanding Max get to his office. He didn’t have time to figure out why. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Just…thanks for not pushing me aside. I appreciate it. And…I’m sorry about Anderson. I heard about what happened and that he was a friend. I knew him a bit, too. If I don’t get a chance to say it, I wanted to now. I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks. Andy was a good friend. And we’re going to find who killed him. We’ll never stop looking.”
79
Max texted her the tip. Jac knew he had been summoned to the director’s office. At the worst possible time.
But that was the way it worked. Sometimes,
