“I didn’t let him get involved. If they hadn’t hacked Gibson’s network, if Hailey hadn’t run away, I never would have known about it. Jonas helped me to find Hailey—the very nature of that help meant that he learned about the surveillance operation.” Finn thought about it and said, “If I’d known him better, or even a little longer . . . but you’re right, I should have realized.”
Sam Frost put his hands to his bowed head and stood like that for a second, then let them drop again and said, “Let me get this straight, you’re saying this proves that he was murdered?”
“I think so. I’ll need to look into it in more detail, but it seems plausible, even likely.”
Sam’s anger was shifting visibly, from an amorphous sense of suspicion that his son hadn’t killed himself, to something more specific, a single person he could blame—Finn.
“You’re saying he was murdered by people who had you under surveillance—and, mate, now that I think about it, I don’t even wanna know why you’re under surveillance—and that’s because, what, you told him stuff and got him curious?”
“No, it was information he—”
Sam swung for him, his fist flying up hard toward Finn’s face. Finn surprised both of them by deflecting Sam’s arm and grabbing it by the wrist, putting his other hand against Sam’s throat. They made eye contact, expressing that mutual surprise, Sam wondering who Finn really was, Finn wondering how those instincts had stayed so fresh, and then Finn let go.
Sam let his hand drop and looked from left to right, as if looking for a way out, the thoughts and the anger stacking up again behind his eyes. Finn saw it coming again even before Sam himself knew he would throw another punch. This time he didn’t deflect it, knowing he had to let Sam land that punch, knowing that he probably deserved it.
He felt the fist meet his cheek with a dull thud, was knocked back a step. Sam hurt his hand in the process and shook it afterward, wincing, and swiveled the chair around and fell into it, his head sunk onto his chest.
He was silent through a few deep breaths, then said, “Sorry.”
Finn looked down at him. “You don’t owe me an apology. I owe you one, but I swear I had no idea this would happen. I wouldn’t have let it happen if I had.”
At first it looked as though Sam might not respond, but then, without looking up, he said, “He was murdered.” Though he’d suspected it all along, he seemed hollowed out by even a partial confirmation of that possibility.
“I think so.”
“So we should call the police . . .” He sounded doubtful.
Finn thought through that process, adding it up in seconds—the difficulty in persuading them of what had happened, the way their investigation would be hampered at every turn, the certainty that no one would ever be charged with the crime.
And he knew instantly what he needed to do, not only for Jonas, but for himself. Because this was about him first and foremost, and now that these people had broken cover he doubted they would ever leave him alone, not until they’d got whatever it was they were after.
“We could go to the police. It’s one of your options, Sam. I think your son was murdered, I’m certain of it, his death made to look like suicide. I’d have to give the police information about myself, which I’m more than willing to do, to convince them that this was indeed a murder. They’ll investigate, but I can tell you now that they won’t find anybody.” Sam looked up, tears in his eyes. “They won’t find anybody, or if they do, strings will be pulled, and for diplomatic reasons no one will be brought to justice, not in any way that would satisfy you.”
“I don’t understand, how . . .” Sam stopped, his thoughts shifting. “You said going to the police was one of the options?”
Finn nodded. “The other is that you don’t go to the police, and the verdict will be suicide, though you’ll know differently. You don’t go to the police, and you accept my promise that I’ll track down the people who did this and I’ll kill them, every one of them.”
Sam stared at him, open-mouthed. Perhaps because of that single intercepted punch, he didn’t seem to doubt that Finn was serious, or that he could do it.
“I can’t make a decision like that. And you don’t have any real evidence, not yet.”
“I’ll get the evidence, and you don’t have to make a decision as such. Just tell me you won’t be going to the police. Answer from the heart, Sam, and tell me if you want to make that call.”
Sam nodded, certain of the kind of justice he wanted, but still said, “I don’t know, I . . . you know, if you were certain . . . but Maria—she couldn’t know—”