Chapter 18 · Dead Man's Tape

The voice outside the bathroom door isn't Locke's.

It's rough. Smoker-rough. And he called me Cricket.

Only three people in the world knew that name. Dad. Mom, before she left. And the man who used to bring us groceries when we first went into witness protection—the handler whose face I never saw because Dad made me stay in the back room every time he came by.

"Cricket, I know you're scared." The voice drops lower, almost gentle. "Your dad wanted me to find you if something happened. I got something he left. You need to hear it."

I press my back against the tile. My phone's in my hand but the screen's black. No signal. Locke's guys cut the main line when they secured the place. Standard protocol.

"I'm gonna slide it under the door. Just listen. Then we talk."

Something scrapes across the floor. A small digital recorder. The kind Dad used to keep in his glove compartment.

I stare at it. It's sitting there in the two-inch gap under the door. Red light blinking.

"Press play," the man says. "I'll wait."

I don't move. This could be anything. A trap. A fake.