Lachlan had tried to buy me off with two hundred thousand at the divorce — he would never, ever have handed over six million willingly.

And a twelve-year-old boy could not possibly command that kind of money unless he had stumbled onto something so dangerous that six million was the price of it.

I walked out of that branch understanding that my son was not rich.

My son was in trouble, the kind of trouble that comes with a number that large attached to it.

I stood on the sidewalk outside the bank for a while, in my cap and my mask, and let the size of the number do its work on me.

Six million dollars.