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New York Times bestselling author Joseph Finder's breakneck stand-alone thriller about the secrets families can keep—and the danger of their discovery.
When former investigative reporter Rick Hoffman loses his job, fiancée, and apartment, his only option is to move back into--and renovate--the home of his miserable youth, now empty and in decay since the stroke that put his father in a nursing home.
As Rick starts to pull apart the old house, he makes an electrifying discovery—millions of dollars hidden in the walls. It's enough money to completely transform Rick's life—and everything he thought he knew about his father. Yet the more of his father's hidden past that Rick brings to light, the more dangerous his present becomes. Soon, he finds himself on the run from deadly enemies desperate to keep the past buried, and only solving the mystery of his father—a man who has been unable to communicate, comprehend, or care for himself for almost 20 years—will save Rick...if he can survive long enough to do it.
“You hire someone yet?” He shook his head again. “Bank account’s a little light. Maybe a couple of months down the road.” He said it in an offhand way, as if it was only a matter of time before a tsunami of money started pouring in. Jeff shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I wouldn’t mind taking a crack at it. You know that’s what I do, right?” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah. Builder, carpentry, gut renovations, the whole nine yards.” He pulled a business card from the front pocket of
did with my dad.” Rick’s brain had slowed down to a crawl. He was fighting to maintain a grasp on the conversational thread. “Jugs was mostly a cash business. Guys don’t want wifey back home in Newton looking at the credit card bills and figuring out hubby wasn’t at a client dinner, you dig? I had tons of it coming in, and I guess your dad knew someone who wanted cash and was willing to pay a premium for it.” “You sold him cash?” Joel grinned. “Capitalism, man. That’s capitalism
and a woman looked out. She wore green hospital scrubs and curlers in her hair. “Sí?” “Do you speak English?” “Em, a little. Yes?” She was a tía, she said, Oscar Cabrera’s sister. The hubbub behind her, which had abated when she opened the door, resumed. Rick could hear water running and dishes clinking and at least one baby crying and screaming. He gave her a version of the pretext he’d given the woman at the beauty salon, that he was a journalist writing a story on the
things from his desk were on the floor. I always assumed he fell and hit his desk on his way down.” Rick hesitated a moment. “You never said anything about that.” “I told the doctor.” “Is there anything else you can remember? Did he look like he might have been beaten?” Her eyes searched the ceiling. “It’s been so long. How long has it been, twenty years?” “Just about. So no blood or other signs that he might have been attacked?” “No, nothing. Who would attack Len?”
“What’s up?” Jeff said. “You okay?” “Not as bad as it looks.” “You know who did it, don’t you?” Rick nodded. “Yeah, and that’s why I wanted to tell you—forget what I told you about asking questions.” Jeff looked puzzled. “About the Big Dig. I asked you to see if you might know someone . . . I’m just saying, don’t.” “Okay, whatever you say,” Jeff said. “Let me ask you something. How much you have this place insured for?” Rick shook his head. “I don’t know, maybe