“Marcus…?” Diego choked out, his voice cracking like dry kindling. “Marcus, what the hell is this?! You’re my cousin! Why are you bringing federal agents to my wife’s doctor’s office?!”
Marcus Vance did not look at Diego with the warmth of a family member. He looked at him with the cold, immovable detachment of an executioner reviewing a capital indictment docket.
“I am not here as your cousin, Diego,” Marcus said, his voice flat as an iron anvil. “I am here as the Lead Case Controller for Operation Broken Cradle.”
Marcus stepped into the room, his heavy leather dress shoes striking the linoleum with a measured, rhythmic cadence:
He stopped two feet from where Paula stood trembling against the wall, her face the color of unwashed chalk.
Marcus reached into his interior coat pocket, withdrew a clear, heat-sealed forensic evidence bag, and held it up beneath the fluorescent light.
