The house on the east side was small and gray and so ordinary that it seemed to fold itself into the street, and looking at it from the dark of the car, this was exactly why Daniel Marsh had chosen it. A man who had spent twenty years hiding did not hide in the shadows. He hid in plain sight, in a house that looked like every other house, on a street where no one asked questions.
She had spent three long years imagining this moment, the moment when the truth about her father's death would be spoken aloud, and she had imagined it a hundred different ways. She had not imagined this. She had not imagined sitting in a car with the son of the man who had killed her father, waiting outside the house of the man who had witnessed the first murder, twenty years before her father was even a name on
