While three grown men laughed and pinned him down, my eight-year-old son was nearly b:eat:en to d:ea:th in his grandfather’s driveway. Rushing to the emergency room, all I heard the doctors whispering were terrifying words like brain swelling and concussion…
The door clicked open. My contact, a ghost of a man named Leighton, stepped inside. He wore an unremarkable gray suit and carried a sealed, heavily protected dossier. He placed it squarely on the mahogany table.
“There’s an underlying motive,” Leighton announced, his voice like grinding stone.
