I thought my daughter’s teddy bear held her goodbye, until the recorder inside played my sister’s voice planning something far worse.

The gas leak was getting worse. I could feel the pressure building in my ears, the acrid smell stinging my eyes. I couldn’t keep the lighter lit forever — one wrong gust of wind, and we’d both be charcoal.

“Walk,” I said, gesturing with the gun toward the hole in the fence I’d come through. “Slow. Hands where I can see them.”

Grant walked, his hands raised, glancing back at me every few seconds. We made it through the fence and to my truck. I kept the gun on him while I opened the passenger door.

“Get in.”

He got in. I walked around to the driver’s side, climbing in and tossing the lighter into the cup holder. I kept the gun pointed at his ribs as I pulled out onto the main road.

“Where are we going?” Grant asked, his voice tight.

“Somewhere quiet,” I said. “Somewhere where if you scream, nobody hears you.”

I drove out of the city, toward the old industrial park on the edge of town. I’d done a lot of work there over the years — big warehouses, empty factories, places that were abandoned at six in the morning. I pulled into the loading dock of an old paper mill I’d serviced last winter, parking the truck in the shadow of a huge concrete silo.

I turned off the engine and turned to look at him. The sun was fully up now, bright morning light streaming through the windshield, illuminating the cold sweat on his forehead.

“Let’s start with the basics,” I said, resting the gun on the steering wheel, pointed directly at his chest. “How many kids?”

Grant blinked. “What?”

“How many kids have you killed, Grant?” I said, my voice calm, cold. “How many families have you destroyed? Florida. Texas. Here. How many?”

He stared at me for a long moment, then laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “You think you’re the first grieving father who’s ever pulled a gun on me? You think you’re special? You’re just another mark, David. Another weak, stupid man who couldn’t take care of his own family, so he trusted the nice man in the expensive suit to do it for him.”

I shot him.

Not in the chest. In the left thigh, right through the meat of it, low enough that it wouldn’t kill him fast, high enough that it hurt like hell.

He screamed, a high, reedy sound, grabbing his leg. Blood seeped through his expensive slacks, pooling on the floor mat.

“Next one goes through your right knee,” I said, my voice still calm, like I was discussing the weather. “Then the left. Then the right shoulder. I’m an HVAC tech, Grant. I know how the human body works. I know how long you can survive without a limb. I can keep you alive for days. Weeks, if I’m careful. Now… I’ll ask you again. How many?”

He sobbed, pressing his hand against the wound, his face white as a sheet. “Three. Okay? Three. Before Emma. Two in Florida, one in Texas. They were all sick already! Their parents were gonna lose them anyway! I just… sped up the process a little. Made sure their families got some money out of it before the end.”

“Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a beach house in Costa Rica,” I said. “That’s what Emma’s life was worth to you? A villa and a lifetime of margaritas?”

“It was Melissa’s idea!” Grant spat, the pain making him angry. “She came to me! She told me her loser brother had a sick kid, that the insurance wouldn’t pay for anything, that we could make a fortune. She picked the drugs. She administered most of the doses when you were at work! I just handled the money! She’s the one who wanted her dead! She always hated you, David. Hated that Mom and Dad loved you more, hated that you had the perfect little family while she was stuck dating a con man who couldn’t hold down a real job. She killed your daughter as much to hurt you as she did for the money!”

I stared at him. I’d known Melissa was involved. I’d heard the recording. But hearing him say it, hearing that she’d hated me enough to kill my baby just to watch me suffer… it was like a punch to the gut.

“Why the toxicology letter?” I said, forcing myself to focus. “Who sent it? Voss?”

Grant laughed, wincing as he shifted his leg. “Voss? That coward? He wouldn’t have had the guts. It was the nurse. The private one we hired. Sarah something. She got suspicious when Emma kept getting worse after the treatments were supposed to be helping. She found Voss’s prescription pads in Melissa’s purse one day. Sent the letter anonymously. We fired her. Paid her fifty grand to leave town. She’s in Mexico now, probably drinking your money on a beach somewhere.”

Sarah. The nurse. I’d liked her. She’d been kind to Emma, read her bedtime stories when I was too exhausted to stay awake. She’d tried to warn me. And I’d ignored her.

“Rico Torres,” I said. “What’s his role?”

“Muscle,” Grant said, his eyes starting to glaze over from blood loss. “Collects debts. Makes problems disappear. He was supposed to kill Voss last week, but the bastard slipped away. He was the one who broke into your house last night, looking for the bear. I told him to find that recorder or don’t come back. He’s gonna be pissed when he finds out Voss is dead. He’ll come for you next, David. He doesn’t leave loose ends.”

“Good,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”

I reached into the backseat and pulled out the first aid kit I kept there for work injuries. I tossed it to him. “Bandage that leg. You’re not dying on me yet. I need you alive to testify against my sister.”

He fumbled with the kit, his hands shaking, tearing open a roll of gauze and pressing it against the wound. “You’re gonna let me live?”

“For now,” I said. “You’re gonna walk into the police station with me. You’re gonna tell them everything. You’re gonna give them every name, every date, every bank account number. And if you even think about lying… I have the recording from the bear. I have Voss’s envelope. I have the spreadsheet from your computer. You go down for life either way. But if you cooperate… maybe you get a cell with a window. Maybe you don’t end up in general population where every guy with a kid knows exactly what you did.”

He stared at me, then slowly nodded. “Okay. Okay. I’ll testify. Just… get me to a hospital first. I’m losing a lot of blood.”

“Hospital comes after the police station,” I said, starting the truck. “You pass out, I’ll drag you in. Don’t test me, Grant. I’ve already killed one person today. What’s one more?”

I pulled out of the industrial park and headed toward the downtown police station. My shoulder was throbbing where the bullet had grazed me, blood soaking through my flannel shirt. I ignored it. Pain was nothing compared to what Emma had gone through.

Halfway there, my phone rang. It was Melissa.

I answered, putting it on speakerphone.

“David?” she said, her voice panicked. “Oh my God, where are you? I woke up and you were gone, and then the police called. They found a body at the train yard. A man shot in the head. They said it was Elias Voss, the doctor who treated Emma! David, what’s going on? Grant’s gone too! His car’s not in the driveway, and he’s not answering his phone!”

She was good. I had to give her that. She could lie so easily, so naturally, it was almost impressive.

“I’m fine, Mel,” I said, glancing at Grant, who was staring at the phone like it was a snake. “I just… went for a long drive. Needed to clear my head. I’m heading into the station now. The cops want to ask me some questions about Voss. Apparently he called me yesterday. Wanted to meet. I never showed up.”

“Oh, thank God,” Melissa breathed. “I was so worried. Wait for me, okay? I’m leaving now. I’ll be there in ten minutes. We’ll get through this together, David. Just like we always do.”

She hung up.

Grant looked at me, his eyes wide. “She’s gonna run. The second she realizes I’m in custody, she’s gonna grab every last cent she can get and disappear. She has a passport under a fake name. I helped her get it. She’ll be in South America before the sun sets.”

“Let her try,” I said, pulling into the police station parking lot. “I have people watching the airports. The bus stations. The borders. She’s not going anywhere.”

That was a lie. I didn’t have anyone. But Grant didn’t need to know that.

I got out of the truck, walked around to the passenger side, and opened the door. “Out.”

Grant stumbled out, leaning on the truck for support, his leg still bleeding. I kept the gun hidden under my shirt, pressed into his back.

“Walk,” I said. “And remember… one wrong word, one signal to anyone, and I shoot you in the back of the head right here on the steps. Cops or no cops.”