Reid, Patrick, and I were all on two as Thursday afternoon grew into Thursday evening. While the lack of sleep over the last thirty-six hours had our nerves on edge, having Araneae and Lorna, as well as the three of us, safely secured within our current lockdown gave me a small amount of comfort. That along with the constant eyes on Araneae’s friends in Denver and Boulder and it almost seemed as if we might find the light at the end of this tunnel.

Seven CDs were opened.

Five to go.

And four floppy disks.

Daniel McCrie had hit pay dirt, at least for when he did this. Technology was nothing like it is today. He copied screenshots of online auction sites with photographs of boys and girls that had been up for sale and rent. I’d heard when I was young, by eavesdropping when I shouldn’t, that most kids lasted a few months to maybe a year in what my father’s men called the stables. Once their usefulness was done, they were sold, oftentimes out of the country. It was an elaborate operation.

When I closed the doors on Sparrow’s ring, I had complaints from all over the world. What Rubio had said about me doing it too abruptly was almost right. My father’s disgruntled middlemen, the ones who skimmed their profits in the exportation, began to revolt. It could have been noticed if I hadn’t taken care of it when I did. After a few associates wound up in acid baths within barrels near the shipyards, word spread fast.

Upon two CDs there were even snippets of a live feed. Unfortunately, the capacity of storage on a CD was significantly lower than what we had today with flash drives. The total capacity of the average home computer around the time of Araneae’s birth was less than a single flash drive today. The snippets were only a few seconds long, yet they showed enough.

I’d heard of the live feed, but had never seen it.

Patrons were able to make their requests and pay to view in real time whatever they requested. The snippets included text bubbles of customers making suggestions and bids. As moneymakers go, it was a brilliant setup. Instead of satisfying one customer with one kid, thousands could tune in and watch. As a moral—even in my immoral world—human being, it turned my stomach.

With all I’d seen, it took a lot of sick shit to make me queasy.

This did it.

This crossed the line.

“Do you think you can track the patrons?” I asked as we replayed the snippet. “Look right there.” Reid paused the snippet and I pointed at the bubble near the bid.

Reid shook his head. “Eventually, maybe. This was twenty-six years ago. Those accounts are undoubtedly gone. The IP address could get me to the region, city, or town, but I’d venture it will tell me that the user was in the greater Chicago area.”

“Not narrowing it down much,” I said, disheartened.

Even in my nearly thirty-three-year-old mind, as the pictures came up on the screen, I found myself transported back to my father’s office, complete with the dark surroundings, the reeking stench of cigarette and cigar smoke, and the revolting laughter of his men.

I fucking hated that sensation. Everything about this made my skin crawl.

With each discovery, I reminded myself that I wasn’t that petrified young teenager. I was a man, the ruler of Chicago’s underground, and the one who took down my father and others who made the decision not to follow me. I was also the man who’d put a stop to the Sparrow side of this horrendous ring, helped the victims I could—the ones I could find and who wanted saving.

The pictures themselves wouldn’t lead to the downfall of McFadden or Sparrow. The victims couldn’t even be identified conclusively. The children were numbered not named. And then we saw it, a URL link within the live-feed snippet.

“Look at that,” Reid said, enlarging a still shot of the live feed. In the lower-right-hand corner was the link to place bids. That link should have led to either one of the outfits.

No longer active, it was at least the beginning of his current search.

Silently, I hoped it went to McFadden and not Sparrow.

That wasn’t to save Sparrow Enterprises or my memory of my father—Sparrow Enterprises was diverse and solvent and my memory of Allister Sparrow was already tarnished. My hope was for one reason: I didn’t want to have to explain the concept to Araneae and admit it was my father’s ring.

“McFadden,” I said, “told me that McCrie gave him six CDs and my father six. Do you think that in this box we have a copy of each one?”

“If that’s the case,” Patrick replied, “then six of these incriminate each outfit.” He looked to me. “I’m sure at the time he knew which was which.”

I leaned back in my chair as Reid’s fingers continued to fly. On another screen, the computer was working out the encryption scheme of the next CD. Each one had a different one. He’d definitely taken his time to do this as thoroughly as possible.

“Rubio didn’t say,” I said, “but if I were to theorize, I’d speculate that McCrie took each man his own dirty laundry, to prove he had it. He thought it would bring him something in payment.”

“It fucking killed him,” Reid said.

Who knew Reid was listening?

“Not immediately. It bought him time,” I said, standing and pacing a small trek. “Why did McCrie give Araneae up at birth?”

“Do we know he did?” Patrick asked. “We know for almost certain from the good judge that she believed Araneae was dead. She gave birth and they handed her a dead baby.”

My head shook as one of the computers emitted a chime. We all looked that direction. The screen that had been rolling with thousands and hundreds of thousands of schemes was now still, a string of numbers and letters on the screen.

“Number eight,” Reid said confidently.

“I keep going back,” I began, “to my father saying that Daniel McCrie owed him. I can’t imagine my father helping McCrie out of the kindness of his heart.” He didn’t fucking have a heart.

“Maybe it was quid pro quo?” Patrick offered.

“McCrie gave my father the CDs that implicated Sparrow. He gave Rubio the CDs that implicated McFadden. He hid copies. Eventually, McFadden killed him.”

“You have a sixteen-year jump in there—a hole,” Patrick said.

“Fuck, I’m aware.”

Reid turned away from the screens, spinning his chair, his dark eyes zeroing in on me. “Before speaking with Judge Landers, we thought what?”

“That she gave Araneae up to protect her.”

“Daniel McCrie was her father,” Reid said. “He saw the shit on these CDs. He worked for McFadden and also for your father. He knew what both men were capable of doing.”

“So you’re saying,” I said, “McCrie gave her up to protect her. He hid her existence from even his wife, for her safety?”

Reid shrugged. “It makes sense. I can’t imagine lying to Lorna, but if it were to save my kid’s life, to save her from ending up as one of these pictures, I just might do it.”

“And she’d kick your ass if she ever learned,” Patrick added.

“McCrie isn’t around for Judge Landers to kick his ass.”

“Right now, I think she’s just amazed her daughter is alive.” My head began to nod. “You know, you might be right about her dad. We figured her mother would try to save her, why not her father?” I stopped my pacing and turned to my two confidants. “Why did he go to my father? Why not McFadden, his brother-in-law?”

“Maybe that’s the reason. Maybe he thought Allister could hide her from his own family. We are mostly certain that Rubio called the hit on McCrie. If he’d order his brother-in-law dead, what would stop him from putting his niece in a sex-and-exploitation ring?”

“Why would my father help him? What was in it for him?” Allister Sparrow wasn’t the type of man to hand out favors, not one this big.

Reid spun the chair and lifted the four CDs still in their plastic cases up in the air. “This. Maybe McCrie told Allister that he had copies. He offered them to him after Araneae was no longer a child, no longer prime for this ring.”

“And then,” I said, the pieces clicking into place, “when my father heard rumors about the whole thing being a ruse, about Araneae really being the dead baby, he was livid. McCrie panicked and went to McFadden to do what...? Offer him the same deal? McFadden didn’t believe that she was ever alive.”

“Because that was what her mother said and your father announced,” Patrick said. “Your father told your mother he’d been lied to. McFadden got wind. He was sick of McCrie’s shit and offed him. Problem officially solved.”

“In the meantime,” Reid said, “somehow the Marshes—whoever in the fuck they were—got wind of McCrie’s demise. If they were reporting to Allister, they were aware of at least the Sparrow outfit. They assumed, like many others, that McCrie’s death was a Sparrow hit. They freaked out and went on the run...”

I stopped walking again. “It would make sense that they were afraid of Allister. Why they warned both Araneae and Mrs. Nelson about the name Sparrow. Fuck, they might not have even known that McFadden was part of the equation.”

“And now,” Reid went on, “McFadden thought all his troubles were over. The baby in the casket was Araneae. He killed McCrie. He’d kept Annabelle close. No loose ends until you showed up with the rumored-to-be-deceased Araneae McCrie on your arm a month and a half before he planned to announce his candidacy for president. You fucking imploded his world.”

Nodding, I sat back down. “Damn. If we’re right, we’ve been close to figuring this out for years, but now, with the evidence we’ve got it.” I looked to both Reid and Patrick. “Can we trace the money from the 737 pilot’s wife’s shell company to McFadden to prove he paid to have the plane crash-landed or at least raise suspicion that he was involved? What about the fire in Araneae’s apartment?”

“I’ve been on that,” Patrick said. “Shelly got the fire inspector’s report. They’ve ruled it arson with two pending cases of manslaughter.”

“Why manslaughter? Why not murder?”

“There’s no evidence the fire was set to cover up the killing or to cause their deaths; instead, the evidence supports that the couple died as a result of the fire, not before it. The medical examiner’s report has to do with smoke inhalation. They weren’t dead before. If they had been, they wouldn’t have inhaled the smoke.”

I nodded. “But no suspects?”

“None,” Patrick replied. “We were looking into the blond insurance agent, but now we know that was Agent Wesley Hunter.”

“Aka Mark, aka Walsh,” I said. “Fuck, he has as many names as Araneae.”

“What are we going to do with this information and what about the stocks?” Patrick asked.

He too had looked through the documents. We varied a little on the net worth, but either way, if Araneae could prove her identity, she will be a very wealthy woman.

“I’m not sure about the evidence,” I admitted. “I told Araneae that I’d leave that decision to her. I haven’t decided what to lead with...the evidence or her wealth.”

“You could start with I have some bad news and some good news,” Reid said with a chuckle as he turned back to the computer screens. “Fuck.”

“Is that the bad news?” Patrick asked.

“No,” Reid replied with a shake of his head. “I’d say it’s good. I just found the closed account where bids were sent for the live auction. It bounced off a shit-ton of virtual servers, went through some archaic firewalls, and ended up right back here.”

“Here? Tell me,” I said, “that it’s not Sparrow.”

“It’s not Sparrow.”