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By the time I agreed to take the case and ended the call, I had just fifteen minutes to get Dad to his appointment across town.

When I went back to fetch him, I found his office empty.

“Dad?”

He was nowhere. I checked the bathroom, the lobby, and walked two blocks over to his favorite coffee shop. Maybe he’d stayed true to his word about grabbing breakfast here in town.

“I haven’t seen the old fart this morning,” Wendy Cho told me. “I actually haven’t seen him all week. Is everything okay?”

“It’s good,” I said. I thanked Wendy, then headed back out to the street. I could see the pier from here. Dad’s boat was still moored in its slip.

My call to him went straight to voicemail. My texts were delivered but unread.

“That son of a ...” I took a breath. Of course, this had been his scheme all along. But he’d promised me all week that he was willing to get the assessment.

As I walked back to the office, a small pit of dread formed in my stomach. The Ford Five Hundred was parked out back. But I hadn’t checked the alley. I knew he hadn’t driven it since Lou Gimble brought it back. But it was the most obvious candidate for Dad’s getaway car.

I tried to keep my breathing even as I quickened my step and rounded the corner to the alley. I stopped short when I got there.

The Five Hundred sat where Lou Gimble had parked it when he dropped it off. My father sat slumped over in the front seat behind the wheel.

“Dad!” I rushed forward and yanked open the passenger-side door. Dad jolted awake and grunted. I felt equal parts relief and frustration.

“What time is it?” he gasped. I climbed in beside him and shut the door.

“Late,” I said. “We’re already ten minutes late for your appointment. You know Dr. Ricci pulled some strings to get you in this quickly. They said the next appointment wasn’t available for another month.”

He stared straight ahead, his hands on the wheel. It was then that I noticed there were no keys in the ignition. Had he forgotten them? Or was this truly just where he’d chosen to hide out?

“Then I’ll go next month,” he said.

“Dad ...”

He turned to me. “I’ll go next month. I’m not going today.”

“I know ...” I started. He immediately cut me off.

“You don’t, Mercy. It’s not an accusation. It’s just a fact. You don’t know.”

He climbed out of the car and slammed the door. I banged the back of my head against the seat, then followed him into the office from the back alley door.

He was already in his own office by the time I caught up with him. He’d made a bit of a mess of it in the time I’d been on the phone with my new client.

He shuffled through the papers on his desk until he found the remote control for the television he kept on one of his bookshelves. He clicked it on.

The screen froze on a grainy image of a courtroom. My father stood at the defense table with the jury on his far right at the top of the screen. He was young. His hair was dark blond and parted on the side, complete with thick sideburns. He wore a black suit with an impossibly wide red tie. Even with the poor quality of the video, I could easily see how handsome he was.

Dad hit play.

“If Mrs. Endicott swore that the blinds were closed to the living room, was she lying?” His voice was clear, confident, but almost casual.

The camera was angled so that I could see the witness. She was impeccably dressed in a dark-blue dress and a single strand of pearls.

“Helen Milo,” I whispered.

“I can’t speak to what Mrs. Endicott says she saw,” Mrs. Milo answered.

Dad took a step forward. Then another. He reminded me of a lion stalking its prey.