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out with the simplest explanation and work your way up.”
    He nodded. “Yeah, they teach the same principle to detectives. Because it’s the truth—ninety percent of the time, the obvious perp is the one who did it.”
    “But not always,” Alexandra said.
    “No, not always.”
    Sarah asked the next question. “So what’s the simplest explanation here?”
    Bear shrugged. “Your father isn’t Richard Thompson. Someone else is. And that someone else doesn’t want to be found out.”
    “You would have to be one cold-hearted bastard to kill for that.”
    “If there’s power and money involved, you can assume that. Who are our candidates to be your father?”
    “My dad—shit…” Carrie stopped. “I’ve always called him that. My—whatever he is—says Senator Chuck Rainsley is my birth father. I have an appointment to see him later this morning. Or rather, Andrea and I had one.”
    “I’ll take you,” Bear said, sighing. “I’ll get with the kids this afternoon.”
    Carrie sighed. “Thank you.”
    “There’s one more thing you need to consider, Carrie.”
    “Yes?”
    “Whoever is trying to hurt Andrea—if it’s because of who her parents are—then we need to be concerned about your safety too. And Rachel’s.”
     

Andrea. May 2. 10:15 am.
    The rhythmic thumping from the headboard of the room next door did nothing to ease Andrea Thompson’s frustration, nor the fact that it had been going in spurts all night. The pattern was clear. Twenty minutes would go by. The door would open, and she’d hear voices. Then the building seemed to shake as the steel door slammed shut, and a few minutes later it would start, usually slow, then faster and faster. Never more than a few minutes. Then the door slammed again. The television Andrea kept on wasn’t loud. She didn’t bother—it would have to be all the way up to block out the noise from next door.
    It was a few minutes after ten and this had been going on all night. An internal debate had been running through her head after she lost count sometime in the early morning, awakened every forty minutes or so. Was the woman next door a prisoner? Was she trafficked? Or a prisoner of her own addictions? Who knew?
    What Andrea did know was that she herself was effectively a prisoner, a fugitive. It presented an interesting ethical problem for both her and Dylan. If the woman next door was a prisoner, they should call the police. But of course, the police had clearly demonstrated they couldn’t protect her. And Andrea did not want to die.
    Right now, however, she was nervous and frustrated and frightened. Dylan had left almost an hour before to get cigarettes and find out what he could of the news. An hour later he still hadn’t returned, and she was worried that whoever was after them had somehow found him. Was he laying somewhere injured? Was he dead?
    Andrea replayed her doubts and worries over and over again, a never ending loop of anxiety and stress, a film on repeat that kept showing her the same images. Hairy Chest, his dead and swollen face as he collapsed in the car. The sight of Dylan, psyching himself up to a killing rage, knives in both hands, as she swung down off the balcony. But even further back. The disapproval on her father’s face. She remembered the looks he’d given her when she was young, but they’d never made any sense. The looks of slight disgust and solid disinterest. She remembered her mother’s tears and protestations that they loved her.
    Then why do you keep sending me away? Andrea had asked once. Three years ago? It was right before her thirteenth birthday, in June of 2010. My birthday is in two weeks. Why are you sending me away?
    Her mother had sighed and said, It’s best, Andrea.
    She hated her mother. Her father she could understand—he was a cold bastard and rarely came out of his office to spend even five minutes with any of his children. But her mother? Why?
    It had never made any sense. Until she discovered that