“My name is Jonah,” the boy said. “She is in an old boarding house near the rail bridge. A man with a chain tattoo on his neck is guarding her. She told me to find you. She said you would believe proof, not words.”
Gregory’s thoughts raced. Someone had staged a fake body. Someone had intercepted medical records. Someone had played him like a puppet while he sat in luxury hotels, believing paperwork more than flesh and blood.
He did not call the police. Not yet. If someone inside his own system was involved, he could not trust anyone until Lillian was safe. He walked past the stunned guests, past the priest, past the open coffin that no longer mattered. Jonah followed. They stepped into a black town car. The driver, trained not to ask questions, started the engine.
Rain began as they crossed the bridge into the older side of the city, where brick buildings leaned tiredly and windows were patched with cardboard. They stopped before a three story house with peeling paint and iron bars on the lower windows. The porch light flickered. Jonah jumped out first.
“She is on the second floor,” Jonah said. “The door at the end of the hallway. Do not be afraid. She is waiting.”