The police would handle things now, ferret out the connection between Colda and Donald. They’d make the case and convict him, if he was fit enough to stand trial. So why didn’t Victor feel the surge of satisfaction he’d been coveting for four years? He was a treasure seeker who had found no treasure, that must be it. Professional disappointment, a waste of time and resources for the agency. Stephanie flopped on the bed, staring at him. “So we’re walking away?” “Why wouldn’t we? There’s no treasure here. I got what I came for.” “You don’t look very happy about it.” He added his flashlight to the pack. “I was after more than the Tarkenton.” “I know,” she said softly. “And the police finding those stolen sketches at the group home pins it neatly on Brooke’s father. You got what you came for.” “Donald may have been the mastermind, but he wasn’t the driver who crashed into us. And none of this brings Jennifer back.” “No, it doesn’t.” Stephanie rolled onto her back and put her hands behind her head.
