Finn tapped the page.
“EXV is not three separate identifiers.”
Sarah frowned.
“What is it?”
“A program designation.”
“For what?”
Finn pointed toward the original header.
EXECUTIVE VIGILANCE.
Sarah stared at him.
“Who created it?”
“We requested the original archive file.”
“And?”
“It was removed in 1998.”
“By whom?”
Finn hesitated.
“Arthur Pendelton.”
The room went silent.
Hutch lowered his coffee.
Maya turned slowly.
Sarah remembered Pendelton’s face.
The fear.
“He created the program?”
Finn shook his head.
“No. According to the metadata, six officers were assigned to it.”
“Who?”
“Five names are sealed.”
“And the sixth?”
Finn handed Sarah another page.
She looked down.
Her body turned cold.
William Jenkins.
Her father.
William Jenkins had supposedly spent thirty-one years as a homicide detective.
At least that was the life Sarah had always known.
She found him in a memory care facility outside Baltimore, sitting beside a window and watching birds gather around a feeder.
His Alzheimer’s had advanced quickly over three years.
Some days he recognized Sarah.
Some days he asked when her mother was coming home, despite the fact Claire Jenkins had been dead for twelve years.
Sarah pulled a chair beside him.
“Dad.”
William looked at her.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then his gaze dropped to her bandaged hand.
Recognition appeared.
“Sarah Jean.”
She smiled despite herself.
“Hi, Dad.”
He touched the bandage carefully.
“Army again?”
“Always.”
She removed the photocopy from her coat.
“Do you remember this?”
She placed it in his lap.
07-K9-EXV.
Nothing changed.
Sarah felt her hope sink.
Then William’s fingers began trembling.
Not the ordinary tremor of age.
Something sharper.
His eyes moved toward the door.
“Where did you get this?”
Sarah froze.
His voice had changed.
Clear.
Focused.
“You know it.”
William grabbed her wrist.
Hard.
“Where?”
“Dad—”
“Who showed you?”
“No one. I used it.”
His face drained.
“You used it?”
“In the field.”
Terror filled his eyes.
“You should never have done that.”
“Why?”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“Because that code was never designed to call for rescue.”
Cold moved through Sarah’s chest.
“What was it designed for?”
William leaned toward her.
“To identify who survives.”
Footsteps passed outside.
William released her.
His expression softened.
The clarity vanished.
He smiled vaguely.
“Sarah?”
She stared at him.
“Dad.”
“When did you get here?”
Sarah’s heart pounded.
He had disappeared again.
Or pretended to.
She could not tell.
She leaned close.
“Who was Executive Vigilance?”
William stared toward the birds.
No response.
