Nathaniel stared at the photograph in Victoria's hand.
His face went pale. His hands stopped shaking. For a moment, he didn't breathe.
"My father," he said. "Webb is afraid of my father?"
Catherine nodded. "Franklin Cross is a federal judge. He's presided over three cases involving Webb's associates. He sentenced two of them to life in prison. Webb has tried to bribe him, threaten him, discredit him. Nothing worked."
"Why not?"
"Because your father is the one person in Washington who can't be bought. He has no political ambitions. No financial vulnerabilities. No secrets." Catherine looked at Nathaniel. "He's also been estranged from you for fifteen years. Do you know why?"
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. "Because I became everything he hated."
"What did he hate?"
"Corruption. Greed. Men who used the law for their own benefit." Nathaniel looked down at his hands. "I became one of those men. He told me so. The last time we spoke."
"When was that?"
"The day I signed the report that destroyed Victoria's company. He called me. He said he'd heard what I'd done. He said I was no longer his son."
Victoria felt a chill run down her spine.
"Your father knew about the report?"
"He knew about everything. He had sources everywhere. He probably still does." Nathaniel looked at Catherine. "How do you know him?"
"We served on a judicial ethics committee together. Years ago. He's a good man. Hard, but good." Catherine paused. "He's also dying."
Nathaniel's head snapped up. "What?"
"Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. He has maybe six months left. He's been keeping it quiet."
Nathaniel turned away. His shoulders shook.
Victoria stepped toward him. "Nathaniel—"
"Don't." His voice was raw. "Just... don't."
She stopped. She wanted to reach out, to touch him, to say something that would make it better. But there were no words for this.
Catherine waited. Olivia waited. The museum was silent around them.
"How do we reach him?" Nathaniel asked finally.
"He's at his home in Georgetown. He doesn't go to the courthouse anymore. Too weak." Catherine pulled a business card from her tote bag. "This is his private number. He'll see you if you call. But he won't see anyone else."
Nathaniel took the card. His fingers brushed against Victoria's.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me yet. Vinson is on his way to Webb right now. You have maybe four hours before Webb knows everything."
---
They left the museum at dawn.
The streets of D.C. were waking up. Commuters. Tourists. Vendors setting up their carts. Life going on as if nothing had changed.
Victoria drove. Nathaniel sat in the passenger seat, staring at his father's business card.
Olivia was in the back, her empty laptop bag on her lap.
"Call him," Victoria said.
"Not yet. I need to think."
"What's there to think about?"
Nathaniel looked at her. His eyes were red, but his voice was steady.
"The last time I saw my father, he told me I was dead to him. That was fifteen years ago. I've spent fifteen years believing it. Now I'm supposed to call him and ask for help?"
"Yes."
"It's not that simple."
"Yes, it is." Victoria kept her eyes on the road. "You're not the same person you were fifteen years ago. Neither is he. You're both dying—him from cancer, you from Webb. What do you have to lose?"
Nathaniel was quiet for a long moment.
"Everything," he said finally. "I have everything to lose."
"Then call him."
He dialed.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
A woman's voice answered. "Judge Cross's residence."
"This is Nathaniel Cross. His son. I need to speak with him."
A pause. "Please hold."
The line went silent. Victoria watched Nathaniel's profile. His jaw was tight. His hand gripped the phone so hard his knuckles were white.
A click. A new voice. Older, rougher, but unmistakably the same.
"Nathaniel."
"Father."
"I heard you were in trouble."
"I'm always in trouble."
A dry laugh. "That's true. Where are you?"
"Georgetown. Ten minutes from your house."
"Then come. The door is open."
The line went dead.
---
Franklin Cross's house was a red brick colonial on a quiet street.
Victoria parked across the street. Nathaniel got out. She followed, with Olivia close behind.
The front door was unlocked. They walked into a foyer that smelled like old books and lemon polish. A woman in a nurse's uniform greeted them.
"He's in the study," she said. "He's been expecting you."
The study was lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling. A fire burned in the fireplace. And in a leather armchair, wrapped in a blanket, sat Franklin Cross.
He was thinner than Nathaniel. His hair was white, his face gaunt. But his eyes were sharp—the same eyes Victoria had seen in Nathaniel's face a hundred times.
"Nathaniel," the old man said.
"Father."
"You look like hell."
"So do you."
Franklin smiled. It was a thin, tired smile, but it was real.
"Sit. All of you. We have much to discuss."
---
Victoria sat on the couch. Olivia sat beside her. Nathaniel pulled a chair close to his father's armchair.
"Marcus Webb," Franklin said. "That's why you're here."
"Yes."
"He's been a plague on this city for twenty years. I've tried to stop him. I've failed." The old man's eyes moved to Victoria. "You're Victoria Hart."
"Yes, sir."
"I know what my son did to your family. I'm sorry."
Victoria didn't know what to say. She nodded.
Franklin turned back to Nathaniel. "Catherine told me about the files. About Vinson. About the second list."
"You know Catherine?"
"I know everyone. It's my job." Franklin coughed—a deep, wet cough that shook his whole body. The nurse hurried to his side, but he waved her away. "I'm fine. Leave us."
The nurse hesitated, then left.
"Webb is afraid of me," Franklin said. "Not because I'm powerful. Because I'm incorruptible. He can't buy me, can't threaten me, can't discredit me. So he's avoided me. But now he knows you're involved. And he knows I'll protect you."
"Can you?" Nathaniel asked.
"I can try. But I need something in return."
"Anything."
Franklin leaned forward. His eyes burned.
"I need you to stop running. I need you to fight. Not for your company. Not for your money. For justice. For the first time
win your life."
Nathaniel looked at his father. Then at Victoria.
"I will," he said.
Franklin nodded slowly. He reached out and took his son's hand.
"Then let's go to work."