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“I’ll let you finish your work,” Lucy said. “I’ll be upstairs.”
The male agent rose to his feet and nodded a greeting. He was about six feet tall, with conservative-cut light brown hair and a square jaw. “I’m Special Agent Noah Armstrong. My partner, Special Agent Abigail Resnick. Lucy Kincaid?”
“Yes.” She glanced from Agent Armstrong to Agent Resnick. Her blond hair, a shade or two darker than Kate’s, was long and pulled into a tight ponytail, making her fine features sharp and edgy. “Is this about my application?”
Noah Armstrong looked surprised. “No, it’s not.”
“Oh—then do you need me for something?” She glanced at Kate, keeping her face impassive though her gut instincts told her that something was very wrong.
Please not Dillon. Not Jack. Not Carina. Not anyone I love! Her family meant more to her than anything, but they all worked dangerous jobs. Cops. Mercenaries. Private investigators.
“Please sit down,” Armstrong said.
Lucy didn’t want to sit, she wanted to know why these two agents were in her house, why Kate was so worried that she kept tucking her hair behind her ear, and what it all had to do with her.
She shrugged off her coat, draped it over a chair, and sat at the opposite end of the table from Kate. She pulled off her gloves and tried to make her face a blank. She took heart that Kate’s eyes weren’t red, that maybe no one they cared about was hurt.
Agent Armstrong said, “Roger Morton was shot and killed last Friday.”
Lucy blinked several times, completely confused and caught by surprise. Roger Morton was dead—she let that sink in. The base of her skull tingled as shame filled her, not in remembrance of what Morton had done, but in her quiet rejoicing over his death.
“Why does the FBI need to deliver the news in person?”
“We’re investigating his murder, Ms. Kincaid.”
Lucy glanced at Kate, who had her mouth firmly shut. It was obvious Kate wanted to say something but felt she couldn’t.
Apprehension grew along with Lucy’s confusion. “I don’t see how I can help in your investigation, Agent Armstrong. I can assure you I never visited that man in prison. Is it customary to interview a convict’s victims?”
“In these circumstances, it is.”
“I must be missing something, because I haven’t been in Oregon in years—in fact, the only time I was ever there was on a family trip when I was about nine.”
“Mr. Morton was killed at the Washington Sailing Marina.”
She knew she hadn’t misheard him. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, as if the wind had been knocked out of her. “In Alexandria?”
Agent Armstrong nodded. “He’s been on probation since July first.”
Lucy stared at the agent, who was observing her closely. Too closely. Her skin heated as the truth hit her.
“Probation?” Her voice cracked.
Roger Morton had been cut loose? That couldn’t be right. And he’d come to D.C? Had he been looking for her? To hurt her again? Rape her?
No! You wouldn’t let him get that close to you. You’re smarter now. You can defend yourself. He cannot hurt you. He’s dead.
“You didn’t know?”
“Know?” Her mind was running full speed in multiple directions: Morton on probation, Morton in D.C., Morton dead. Her body quivered, but she didn’t feel it, almost as if she were detached and watching the conversation from the sidelines. She saw the tremble in her hand but barely comprehended it was hers.
She looked at Kate. Her sister-in-law couldn’t keep the pain and the guilt from her eyes. She realized Kate had already known about Morton’s early release.
“You didn’t tell me?” she asked, letting the anger in because anger conquered pain. The pain would come—of betrayal and fear and regrets—but she wanted to be alone for that. Needed to be alone to protect herself.
“I’m so sorry,” Kate said. “I wanted to, Lucy, but at the time, six years ago when he made his deal, you were—” She let the sentence drop.
Lucy knew exactly what she was six years ago. Disconnected from everything and everyone as she ever so slowly came to terms with what had happened during the unspeakably heinous twenty-four hours when she’d been held captive by Adam Scott and Roger Morton. She’d told her brother Patrick everything, because then Patrick was in a coma and he didn’t look at her with pity and fear and worry. He didn’t tell her she had to eat, that she should sleep, that she needed to talk to a professional. It was the only way she could cope. Some days she hadn’t left his room, preferring his even breathing to the concerned whispers filling every corner of her home, friends and family all worried about Lucy. That Lucy had been raped. That Lucy had been humiliated online. That Lucy had killed a man and showed no remorse.
