“They
were going to kill
you,” he said quietly, “then bury the well for good.”
Gavin did not move.
For eight years, he had been called a murderer.
For eight years, his daughter had been raised around people who taught her that her father was dangerous.
For eight years, the state had fed him toward a needle while the real criminals waited for the ground itself to close over their secret.
Then the investigator found the photograph.
Not the one of Chloe’s mother holding the sign.
Another one.
It showed her standing beside the prosecutor’s investigator outside a rural clinic. Her face was thinner. Her hair was shorter.
But she was alive.
The date stamp was only seven months old.
Gavin’s knees nearly gave out.
Mitchell caught his arm.
“No,” Gavin whispered. “No, don’t do that to me. Don’t show me that unless you know.”
