~ Michael POV ~
The whiskey burned my throat as I stared at the photographs scattered across my desk. Eight years. Eight goddamn years of searching, and all I had to show for it were dead ends and sleepless nights.
"Mr. Walton?" Daniel cleared his throat from the doorway of my office. "You wanted to see me?"
I gestured to the chair across from me. Daniel Shaw had been my last resort—a private investigator with a reputation for finding people who didn't want to be found. His weathered face and calculating eyes told me he'd seen more of the world's ugliness than most.
"It's been six months, Daniel." I didn't bother hiding the edge in my voice. "Please tell me you have something."
He placed his worn leather briefcase on my desk, the brass buckles clicking open with practiced precision. "
