Part 2
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“I need a cleanup team,” I said quietly.
There was a long silence on the other end of the encrypted line.
Then the voice asked, “Who’s the target?”
I looked through the glass window at my eight-year-old son lying under hospital lights, his tiny fingers curled around a blanket like it was the only thing left in the world that couldn’t hurt him.
“My father-in-law,” I said. “Thomas Whitmore. Brentwood. Two adult sons assisted. My wife may be involved.”
Another silence.
This one was different.
He knew that last sentence had cost me something.
“Ethan,” the voice said carefully, “are we cleaning bodies… or cleaning evidence?”
My jaw tightened.
Five years ago, I might have answered too fast. Five years ago, I was the kind of man the government called when laws had already failed and evil men needed to disappear into rooms without windows. Five years ago, my name had opened doors most citizens didn’t know existed.
But now I was a father in a hospital hallway.
And my son was breathing through pain.
“No bodies,” I said. “Not unless they force it.”
A faint exhale came through the line. Relief, maybe. Or respect.
“Understood. Legal containment?”
“Full forensic preservation. Cameras. Phones. Vehicles. Medical chain. Witness retrieval. Financial records. Anything tied to Jake.”
“You want federal?”
“I want everything.”
“Then you don’t need a cleanup team,” he said. “You need a storm.”
I closed my eyes.
“Bring one.”
The call ended.
When I turned around, Christine was standing at the far end of the hallway.
My wife looked perfect.
That was the first thing I hated.
Her blonde hair was brushed smooth. Her cream coat was spotless. Her lips were pale, but not from panic—more like she had rehearsed crying and forgotten how. She held her purse in both hands, clutching it against her stomach as though she were the victim here.
“Ethan,” she whispered.
I didn’t move.
“Where were you?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked toward Jake’s room. “Daddy said Jake got out of control. He said—”
“Don’t call him Daddy in this hallway.”
She flinched.
Good.
“Ethan, please,” she said, stepping closer. “You don’t understand my family. They’re rough, but they love him.”
My laugh came out so cold that even the nurse at the desk looked up.
“They love him?” I repeated. “Your brother held his arms. Your other brother held his legs. Your father slammed his head into concrete.”
Her mouth opened.
No sound came out.
That was when I knew.
Not suspected.
Knew.
She had already heard the story.
“What did you do after it happened?” I asked.
Christine swallowed. “I panicked.”
“No. Try again.”
“I didn’t know how bad it was.”
“His ear was bleeding.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but they didn’t fall. “My father said if we called an ambulance, everything would be taken out of context.”
Something inside me went silent.
Not calm.
Worse than calm.
Dead.
“You left our son to walk down the sidewalk bleeding because your father was worried about context?”
Christine covered her mouth. “I thought he was going to call you.”
“Jake said your father told him I wasn’t coming.”
Her face changed.
Only for one second.
But I saw it.
Fear.
Not fear for Jake.
Fear that Jake remembered.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice until it barely existed.
“Listen to me very carefully. You are not going inside that room until the doctors say Jake wants you there. You are not calling your father. You are not deleting anything from your phone. You are not warning anyone.”
She stared at me as if I had become a stranger.
Maybe I had.
“Ethan… who are you talking to me like this?”
Before I could answer, the elevator doors opened behind her.
Three people stepped out.
A woman in a dark navy suit. A tall man with a shaved head and a medical examiner’s badge clipped to his jacket. And a silver-haired attorney carrying a leather folder embossed with no firm name at all.
Christine slowly turned.
The woman in the navy suit walked toward me first.