Harrison, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 10:30 a.m.
Cade opened one eye, groaning when bright sunshine hit like a sledgehammer. He’d forgotten to pull the shades in his bedroom when he’d tumbled into bed the night before. Who put a bedroom window facing east, anyway?
Evidently the guy who’d built this house, an old pedo who’d gotten what he’d deserved after luring a kid into his van with the tired old story about a missing puppy. Weren’t parents supposed to be teaching their kids not to fall for that shit?
And weren’t parents supposed to be watching their kids?
Luckily for the child in question, Cade had been there to save him, because the child’s parents had failed on both counts. The pedo had made all the usual excuses, of course. Cade hadn’t listened. The man had already drugged the little boy.
Cade had left the child on a park bench, then waited out of sight until a beat cop had come by and taken him to the hospital. Then Cade had taken the old man to the woods at the river’s edge, cut him up while he’d still been alive to feel every slice, and fed him to the fishes.
Now he wondered if the man’s bones would be among those the divers pulled out of the Ohio River. Probably not. It had been four years since Cade had dumped him into the river. Silt would have covered any remains by now.
And even if the cops did find the old man, Cade wasn’t sorry. The piece of shit had needed to die. I’m just happy I was there to do it.
The old pedo had been the first, but there had been others since. The home health nurse in Indianapolis who’d stolen the life savings of her patients. Several other pedos—male and female.
There was also the man who’d beaten his wife nearly to death in front of their son, but who’d been out on bail the very next day, returning home to finish the job a few months later. That one hit far too close to home and he’d taken particular satisfaction in hearing the murdering bastard’s screams.
The cops hadn’t protected any of those victims. So I did.
Not all of the doers had ended up in the river. Some, like Richard, were staged as accidents, especially if they were people Cade knew. Some, like his father, had lived in spite of Cade’s best efforts. Some, like the good doctor last night, were simply unfortunate collateral damage. Gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet.
Speaking of which, he was starving. He’d skipped too many meals yesterday. He swung his legs over the side of the bed with a grunt. He’d pulled a muscle as he’d run to his SUV after killing Dr. Garrett.
“I’m getting too old to be jumping fences like that,” he grumbled aloud. But some ibuprofen would take care of his aches and pains. Thirty wasn’t that old.
He fried a few eggs on the ancient stove that had come with the house. All the appliances were tottering on the edge of life, but now that he was leaving town, he was happy that he hadn’t cared enough to replace any of them.
Clearly the old pedo who’d built the place hadn’t cared, either. The man had had money. Cade had found piles of cash in a lockbox in the basement, which was fitting because the basement was where all the pedo’s money had been spent.
Cade had been in heaven when he’d discovered the secret room filled with weapons behind a fake wall. So many handguns. Rifles—new AK-47s and AR-15s, and vintage submachine guns dating from World War II and Vietnam. Then there were the grenades. So many grenades. And they still worked, too. Cade had checked. He hadn’t checked the potency of the Claymore land mines, though. The old pedo’s house was a mile from its nearest neighbor, but a Claymore explosion might be heard or felt from that far away. He wasn’t sure, so he didn’t risk it.
He loved the weapons room. Unfortunately, to get to it, he had to walk by the other special rooms the pedo had built behind the fake wall. One was a small jail-like cell, with a bed, desk, sink, and toilet. No windows. One door.
The other room had been the stuff of Cade’s nightmares. The size of a small closet. Airtight. Soundproofed. Cade had unlocked the door with the keys he’d removed from the pedo’s pocket after he’d killed him, and found the body of a teenage boy.
He shuddered now, standing in the old man’s kitchen, remembering the horror he’d felt at the sight. Then soothed himself with the knowledge that the boy’s parents had closure. He’d put the body in the old man’s van and left it where the cops could find it. The kid was identified pretty quickly. He hadn’t been dead long. He’d been fourteen when he was killed, eleven when he was taken.
The old man had kept that kid a prisoner for three years. Then left him to die in that airtight room when he was finished with him, which, Cade guessed, was why the old man had been in the park—to get a new kid. The ME had confirmed that the boy had died of cerebral hypoxia as a result of suffocation.
But the parents got closure, he reminded himself. I did that. I also took the filthy pedophile out of the breathing population, like I did last week and last night.
He’d saved Brewer’s little stepson. Hell, he’d saved countless kids.
Cade wasn’t sorry for any of the things he’d done. He was, however, sorry that he hadn’t been more careful this time.
Flipping the fried eggs onto a plate, he sat at the table, his tablet in hand. He forced himself to click on the Ledger’s front page, wondering—with not a little dread—what the paper had to say about George Garrett’s death.
He’d been sloppy last night. And lucky.
But still skillful. He’d made it in and out of the doctor’s house in thirty seconds. He hadn’t heard the alarm blare until he’d cleared the back door. That hadn’t been sloppy or lucky. That had been talent.
Even so, seeing Garrett’s gun pointed at him had left him rattled. And that he had raced out to the crime scene yesterday without a disguise?
The hell of it was, he probably hadn’t needed to. Once his panic and adrenaline had faded, Cade had considered the layout of the forested area near the river dump site. There was no way Garrett could have seen his face. He’d done all that nonsense last night for nothing.
Disgusted with himself, he pushed his plate away, no longer hungry as he read the Ledger’s headline: KEY WITNESS MURDERED. He let out the breath he’d been holding as he scanned the article. Nobody had seen him enter or exit the house.
It had been a clean kill. The article did mention the 911 call and quoted Garrett as saying, “I was afraid you’d come,” speculating that the man had recognized his killer. That was okay, though. Nobody knew who the intruder was. Garrett’s security cameras had captured him, but the picture quality was poor and his face had been covered with the ski mask anyway.
Cade clicked to the TV news website to see if they provided any more detail. When the home page loaded, his breath froze in his chest.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. Because there he was.
My face. It was there. For everyone to see.
For a long moment, he could only stare. It was a sketch, but a damn decent one. Anyone who knew him would recognize him. Anyone who saw this sketch would know he was a person of interest.
He gritted his teeth, breathing through his nose to calm his suddenly racing pulse. No one can find me here. This place still belonged to the old pedophile, who, as far as the government knew, was still alive and collecting his social security. Cade kept the taxes and the utilities paid. There was no one to tie him to this house. His check from the casino went to a PO box. The address the nursing home kept on him was his childhood home—not that he would ever set foot in that place again, unless it was to burn it down.
Which he’d considered doing, many times. But the equity in the house was keeping his father in the nursing home. Without it, Cade would be expected to care for the old bastard. Which was not gonna happen, because—
Dammit. Pay attention. He jerked his focus back to the very real and present danger—that his face was on the news.
Garrett had seen him. But how? And was that even important anymore? He’d killed the man. Garrett couldn’t testify against him. But that wouldn’t stop the cops from putting Cade in a cage.
“I need to get out of here.” Merely starting a new job somewhere else was no longer an option. Run. He needed to leave the country. He needed a new life.
He’d tossed his tablet to the table and pushed out of his chair when he froze again. The next story had popped up. This one with video.
AREA TEEN QUESTIONED IN DEATH OF RIVER VICTIM.
He slowly sat down and turned up the volume. A reporter’s voice-over accompanied the video of a young man being walked toward CPD headquarters, escorted by the two cops he’d seen on the news story in his father’s nursing home room. The white-haired Fed, Deacon Novak, and his CPD partner, Adam Kimble. There was a third person with them, a woman who had her hand on the kid’s back. Both she and the kid wore ball caps that hid their faces, but every so often the woman would look up and glare at a reporter who came too close.
“Michael Rowland, stepson of river victim John Brewer, was brought in to CPD for questioning this afternoon regarding the apparent murder of his stepfather.”
Cade frowned. “That’s not Brewer’s stepson.” Brewer’s stepson was a little kid. Five years old, tops. The kid on the screen was a teenager.
Shit. Did Brewer have two kids?
“Police have withheld the teen’s name due to his minor status,” the reporter continued, “but his mother has come forward, claiming that her son both killed her husband and assaulted her, beating her on numerous occasions.”
The video of Michael walking into the police station switched to a clip of a woman wearing wrinkled but expensive clothes. Her skin was sallow and her hair was snarled and dirty.
“He killed my John,” she said tearfully. “I tried to control him, but Michael was just too angry, all the time. He was always a difficult boy, but in the last year he’s become violent. He kept threatening to kill John and now he has.” Big tears gathered in her eyes and spilled down her face. “And now I’m afraid for me and my little boy, Joshua. I’ve lost my husband. Are they going to take my little boy, too?”
They cut to the reporter, who stood in front of a large school building. “Michael Rowland is a freshman at Albert Sabin High School. We were here earlier during the annual Spring Fling dance talking to faculty and students, who were stunned at the news. Many expressed disbelief that Michael could be involved. School administrators declined to comment, and we were told by his fellow classmates that Michael keeps to himself. But the students believed that this was due to the teen’s disability. Michael is deaf and uses an interpreter during his school day.”
The video cut again, showing the reporter standing in front of the courthouse, looking concerned. “We should note that the victim’s wife, Stella Rowland Brewer, was released on bail for drug possession charges this morning and Michael and one other child were removed from her custody into emergency foster care.” She made a pained face. “So this story is far from straightforward. We’ll continue to investigate. I’m Kelly Henry and this is Action News.”
Cade stared at the screen long after the segment had ended. He hadn’t known about another kid when he went to Brewer’s house to check that the five-year-old was safe. He’d looked in the other bedrooms. One was the master, where he’d packed Brewer’s clothes into a suitcase so it would look like he’d gone on a trip.
The other was a stark guest room, bed made with military precision, the furniture and walls devoid of anything personal.
The third was Joshua’s room, where the boy had been sound asleep. But he hadn’t looked for any other kids. I should have. Why didn’t I?
Because he’d considered his job done that evening. He’d killed John Brewer and Blake Emerson, the guy who’d tried to buy Brewer’s stepson. He’d cut them up and dumped their parts in the river. He’d gone back to check on the kid, for God’s sake, because it was the fucking right thing to do. He’d been exhausted, dammit, so he’d come back here to sleep.
He clenched his eyes shut, trying to focus. “Okay,” he said aloud, the sound of his own voice anchoring him in the empty kitchen. “Either way I have to get out.” Because his face was on the damn news. “At least they don’t know my name.” They didn’t know any of the names he’d been using, real or fake. “Yet.”
He could run right now. He could be in Canada in five or six hours. But if they caught him? They had an only-decent sketch at this point. They’d need an eyewitness to make any charges stick. If Garrett had been the one who’d seen him, that loose end was snipped. But if Garrett hadn’t been the witness?
He pushed to his feet and began to pace the small kitchen, feeling caged and angry. Why am I even worrying about this? I killed scum that should be dead. I killed kiddie rapists and wife beaters. I killed traffickers and thieves.
Why should he be worried that they’d catch him and send him to prison? But he knew it was because of the collateral damage, like George Garrett.
In his heart, Cade knew that Garrett hadn’t seen him at the river. But Michael Rowland lived in Brewer’s house. “He could have seen me.”
New panic rose to choke him, because unlike George Garrett, the teenager was still breathing. He ran his palms over his head, digging his fingers into his skull. The sharp pain short-circuited the panic and he could think again.
He dropped into the chair and pulled his tablet close. It was time to be smart. Yesterday he’d run crazy, worried that the fisherman had seen him. He’d taken care of the threat, but had made some mistakes. Now he was going to go slowly. He’d determine whether the kid was a threat.
If so, he’d eliminate him, just like he’d eliminated George Garrett, though he’d do it a lot more carefully. Then he’d leave. Change his face. Do something.
He’d definitely quit doing the cops’ job for them. He’d leave the kiddie rapists and traffickers and wife killers and thieves to prey on anybody they pleased.
Not my circus, not my monkeys. It was time he took care of himself. The question was, how exactly would he determine if Michael Rowland had been the one to give the cops his description?
If Michael had seen him, perhaps he’d told someone. Someone other than the cops. A friend, maybe. Or a teacher.
Where did that news report say he went to school?
Cade found the news report and watched it again. Albert Sabin High School. He located it on the map, then realized it was Sunday. They’d be closed today.
Besides, he couldn’t just waltz in and ask for Michael Rowland. First, he’d be recognized in five seconds, because his face was on the fucking news. Second, he doubted Michael would be at school tomorrow.
Nor would he find the teenager in Brewer’s house. Both children had been removed from the home into emergency foster care. He needed to locate the foster home into which they’d been placed.
He considered the boys’ mother. Her expensive clothes couldn’t hide that she was an addict. He highly doubted she’d been told where her sons were. Hell, she thought her teenager had killed that prick Brewer.
He stilled. Wait. Why? Why would she think that? Was there evidence that pointed to the kid?
Would it be possible to frame the kid for the murders?
Then he remembered George Garrett. “Shit.” Garrett’s security cameras had caught him, and even though Cade’s face had been covered, Michael Rowland was barely five-foot-eight and so damn skinny. There was no way the kid could be mistaken for Garrett’s killer.
George Garrett is gonna come back to bite me in the ass, he thought grimly.
So he was back to finding where Michael Rowland was being kept. He rewound to the start of the news story and slowed the speed of the video, advancing it frame by frame as he studied the teenager. The cops walking him into the police department didn’t look like they believed he was guilty. They looked protective. But the cops weren’t going to tell him anything, either.
He wasn’t even going to chance asking.
He paused the video, freezing a frame that showed the woman walking beside the boy. She looked more than protective. She was snarling at the reporters.
For the first time since he’d seen his own face on the news, Cade smiled. “I’ll start with her.” She’d guarded Michael like he was her own kid. She’d know where he was hiding.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, March 17, 10:40 a.m.
“That would be great, Miles,” Dani said into the phone, breathing a sigh of relief. Dr. Miles Kristoff had agreed to take her shifts at the clinic for the next four days. “I’ll owe you one.”
“No, you won’t,” Miles said kindly. “You worked Christmas and Thanksgiving for me for the past two years so that I could spend the time with my kids. You deserve the vacation. Where are you going to go?”
“Nowhere. I’ve got two new foster kids and they need me.”
“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment. “The boy on the news?”
Dani sighed. “Yeah. But let’s not spread that around, if you don’t mind. We haven’t had any reporters skulking about and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Miles made a rude sound. “Vultures, you mean. I get it. They won’t get a word from me. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Diesel looked up from his laptop when she ended the call. He’d been scowling at his screen for the past hour, while she’d cleaned the remnants of his chocolate chip pancakes from the kitchen and the boys played downstairs with Meredith. “Everything okay at the clinic?” he asked.
She nodded. “I’m off for a few days. That will at least give me time to get them settled and resolve their school situation.” She bit at her lip, glancing toward the front window. They’d kept the drapes shut in case a reporter came by, but she actually had a larger concern. “I’m worried about their mother,” she confessed.
Diesel closed his laptop and gave her his undivided attention, which didn’t really help matters. When he looked at her like that, she felt powerful and important. And she realized once again how much she was going to hurt him.
He’d been worshipping her for eighteen months. There was no way any woman could live up to that. Much less me. No matter how much I want his fantasy to be true.
She busied her hands making tea so that he wouldn’t see them tremble. “The courts favor the biological parent,” she went on. “If Stella Brewer makes a fuss, a judge might give her another chance.”
“So what will you do?” he asked simply, as if there was no question in his mind that she had a plan.
She liked that about him. A lot. He hadn’t once questioned her competency, when so many men had.
Even Adrian had, and even though she knew he’d been striking out at the time, emotionally devastated and in pain, his words had hurt. Are you happy now? I hope you’re a better doctor than you were a lover.
She pushed the words away, focusing on the ones that mattered. The kids need me. Michael needs me.
“I want to get Michael x-rayed, to document previous abuse. He said that his mother took him to different clinics, always giving false names. If I can pull one or two of those records into the open and match them with a scar or a healed break, we can show gross negligence on her part and endangerment of a child. She might not have caused that particular injury, but she left him in an environment where she knew he was being abused. That way, if she tries to say she threw a bowl at his head because of the stress of her missing husband, we can show this has been a pattern all along.”
“What can I do to help you?”
Which was exactly what she’d expected him to ask, even as she’d dreaded it. He offered his support so sweetly. No strings. He should want strings. He should demand them.
“For now, nothing. I may need you to do some creative searching later, though, if I can’t find what I’m looking for on my own.”
“You only need to ask.”
She swallowed hard, because that statement was rife with nuance and double meaning. “I know.” The kettle boiled and she poured water into the teapot and carried it to the table. “I’ll start by asking Michael what he remembers about the clinics he was taken to. I hate to upset him, but he’s going to find out sooner or later that his mother is making noises about getting Joshua back. I’d rather he hear it from us.”
Us. The word had flowed from her mouth before she’d realized it was coming. She hadn’t intended to say it, even though it was truly one of the nicest words. And right now, one of the scariest.
He hadn’t missed her slip and his dark eyes flashed with something hopeful.
Which made her feel even worse. So she powered through. “But for now, I’d like to look at that list of businesses, so we can figure out who LJM was. Have you heard from Jeremy O’Bannion?”
“I got a text.” Diesel’s tone had gone wary, as if he sensed her panic. “He didn’t have any records of her in his home office, so he’s going in to his office at the university to check, but he’s got some fundraiser or other to attend first. He’ll get to us as soon as he can.”
“All right, then. Can I look at the list?”
Diesel rummaged in his laptop case and brought out a stack of papers, neatly stapled in the corner. “I used your printer last night to make a hard copy. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.” She scanned the list of businesses compiled into a tabular format from the state government’s database. Eighty business entities took up four pages and were more words than her brain could process at the moment.
Falling back on what worked for her, she drew a spiral notebook and a pen from one of the kitchen drawers.
“What are you doing?” Diesel asked in confusion.
“I’m going to write them all out.”
“Longhand? With paper? And a pen?”
She had to laugh at his horrified tone. “Yes. The act of writing helps one’s brain dissect and retain information. I started doing this in med school. It was the only way I got through HGA with an A.”
He continued to watch as she started copying out each business name, still apparently disbelieving that she’d actually write with a pen. “What’s HGA?”
“Human Gross Anatomy. Oh.” Something clicked in her brain and she ran her finger down the printed table until she found the entry she was looking for. “Aminus HGA.” She pronounced it AH-minnus, just as she’d heard in her mind every time she’d read through the list. “But it’s not AH-minnus. It’s A-minus. Like, the grade. If all of these business names refer to one person—LJM—then she got an A-minus in Human Gross Anatomy during her first year of med school at UC.”
He blinked. “You’re right. Does Jeremy teach HGA?”
“No, but he’ll know the prof who does. He doesn’t have to check all med students in the files. He can narrow it down to who got an A-minus in Human Gross Anatomy in the years that LJM went to UC. Based on . . .” She ran her finger down the list of companies. “Here. ‘Scioto Associates.’ I took that to mean that she lived at Scioto Hall when it reopened, while she was an undergrad. That had to have been 2016 or later because the dorm was closed for renovations before that.”
Diesel nodded thoughtfully. “When do med students take HGA?”
“We took it the first semester of our first year—that was the fall semester.”
“Okay.” He picked up her pen and began to make notes in the margin of the list he’d printed out. “If she started med school directly after graduation, that means she was a first-year student two and a half years ago. LJM S&R was established in January of last year, so if we assume that’s when she went missing, she took HGA this past fall, fall a year ago, or fall two years ago.”
“Not this past fall,” she corrected, taking the pen and circling one of the businesses. “‘APG White Coat Distribution.’ She would have received her white coat for finishing her first year. So we’ve narrowed down when she took HGA to either one or two years ago.”
“I’d forgotten about the white coat thing,” he murmured.
“I didn’t. The white coat ceremony was a huge milestone. It would have been for her, too.” She shook her head, staring at the list, which made so much sense in one respect and so little in others. “But I still don’t understand why whoever set up these companies left all these clues—especially the ‘Brothers Grim.’ If we’re able to track LJM down, we can figure out whoever it was who built this tangled mess.”
Diesel shrugged. “Like I said before, maybe they’re hiding in plain sight. And maybe they don’t think anyone will go to the trouble of dissecting all this.” He grinned abruptly. “Are you sure that you really want to be a doctor? You’re looking like you’re enjoying this detective gig.”
She’d stiffened at the first part of his question, but relaxed when she realized he was teasing. And once again, not criticizing. “I like puzzles, but the thought of the physical danger is enough to send me running back to sick patients and insurance paperwork.”
Just then, the basement door flew open and Michael strode through, determination on his tear-streaked face and Hawkeye on his heels. In his cupped hands, he held tiny pieces of paper, ripped into what looked like confetti.
Before Dani or Diesel could say a word, Meredith appeared, her face serene. It was a mask she wore when her emotions threatened to tear her apart. Which was usually the case after she’d talked to children who were hurting.
Meredith silently followed Michael, reaching into the cupboard for a glass mixing bowl, into which he dumped the paper. She put the bowl into the sink, then looked over her shoulder.
“Matches?” she asked Dani.
“Second drawer on your right,” Dani said, reading between the lines. Michael and Meredith had talked, and the scraps of paper were the remnant of that conversation. Meredith knew a few signs, but she was far from fluent, so they’d communicated via paper and pen.
A glance at Diesel told her that he’d also arrived at that conclusion. There was pain in his eyes and his jaw clenched reflexively. But he said nothing, just watched.
Meredith handed Michael a match. The teenager gave Dani a questioning look and Dani nodded. “Do it,” she signed.
With hands that shook, Michael lit the match and dropped it into the bowl. Fire whooshed up, but quickly burned itself out. After a minute, Meredith ran tap water over the smoldering mess, dumped it down the sink, then turned on the disposal.
“Finished,” Meredith signed with a flick of her hands.
Michael’s expression was grim, but still determined as he turned to Dani. “Can I meet with her?” he asked, pointing to Meredith.
Dani maintained her own serene face, not showing her relief. Therapy was exactly what Michael needed. Therapy with Meredith was even better. “Of course.”
“And next time I’ll hire an interpreter for you,” Meredith said and Dani signed her words. “No more writing it out.”
Which was the law, but Meredith would have done it regardless because it was the right thing to do. So many providers tried to refuse to pay the cost of interpreters. Dani was grateful that securing the service for Michael’s therapy would be one fight she wouldn’t have to take on at the moment.
“I just got the next few days off,” Dani told him. “We’ll make an appointment and I’ll take you.”
“We’ll take you,” Diesel corrected. “Nobody goes anywhere alone for a while.”
Michael drew a breath, then closed his eyes and exhaled on a sob. And in that moment he was a fourteen-year-old boy who was terrified and hurting.
With an audible swallow, Diesel came to his feet, hooked one big hand around Michael’s neck, and pulled the boy in for a hug. Michael froze for a split second, then wound his arms around Diesel’s solid strength and cried into his chest, his sobs tortured and desperate.
Diesel’s hand shook as he stroked Michael’s hair gently, the giant man giving comfort to a scared little boy. And hopefully taking some comfort for himself.
Think of it as a mugging.
Yeah. Diesel’s experience is personal, all right. One had only to look at his face to see the agony there. Yet he was here. Helping.
Dammit, Diesel. Why didn’t you find somebody better than me?
Dani didn’t realize she was crying until Meredith put a tissue in her hand.
“He’s gonna be okay,” Meredith murmured. “We’re going to make sure of it.”
Which one of them? Dani wanted to ask, but of course she didn’t. Instead she cleared her throat. “Does he know about his mother?”
“That she wants Joshua back?” Meredith shook her head. “No, not yet.”
Great. That would be yet another blow. “All right. I’ll tell him. And Joshua?”
“He fell asleep on the sofa downstairs. He didn’t see any of our conversation.”
“Good. I’ll bring him up and put him to bed.”
Meredith brushed Dani’s hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “And you? Will you be all right?”
Dani scoffed quietly. “I’m always all right.”
Lie, lie, lie. She wasn’t all right. Not at all.
Meredith’s sober look said that she knew Dani was lying. “My door is always open to you. You know that.”
Dani looked away. “I know. Thank you.”
“I’m going home now. Call me if you need me. Call me if Diesel needs me.”
Dani sucked in a breath and met her friend’s clear green eyes. And saw perfect understanding there. Understanding and truth and sorrow as Meredith’s serene mask slipped away for the briefest of moments.
“He’s a good, good man,” Meredith whispered, then leaned in close. “Don’t hurt him. Please.”
Pain radiated through Dani’s chest. Her friend hadn’t bought her clueless act. Meredith knew that Dani had been aware of Diesel’s feelings all this time. And Meredith expected her to do . . . what? The right thing? The wrong thing?
Clearly, the thing that would hurt him. Because Meredith knew people. She knows me.
Dani came to her feet. “I’m going to see to Joshua. I’ll catch you later.”