A grief marker.
She traced the outline with her fingertip.
“You lost someone, didn’t you?”she whispered.“A parent?That’s got to be why it’s here.You put that where your signature should be, because it’s the part of you you can’t hide.”
Her voice softened to a breath.
“That loss… it’s at the heart of all of this, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Phil Dehan’s house looked like something out of a different universe—one where people lived actual lives instead of stalking crime scenes and inhaling precinct coffee fumes.
A basketball rolled down the driveway as Marcus stepped out of the Bureau sedan.A dog barked somewhere inside—big, enthusiastic, extremely unhelpful in identifying which room the noise was coming from.The front yard was littered with scooters, sidewalk chalk, and the unmistakable debris field of a recent water-gun battle.
Not Garrett’s world,Marcus thought.
Not Hayes’s world either.
The front door swung open before he could knock.
A little girl of about seven stared up at him with suspicious gravity, a plush unicorn tucked under one arm, the dog now visible behind her, vibrating with friendly menace.
“Daddy!”she yelled.“There’s a giant man at the door!”
A voice floated from inside.“Ask him if he’s from the FBI!”
Marcus tried a tentative wave.“Hi.Yes, I’m from the FBI.Do you know what that is?”
The girl considered this, decided it was insufficiently exciting, and wandered off without a word.The dog replaced her in the doorway, tail slapping the wall.
Phil Dehan appeared next—a tall man in his forties wearing jeans, a T-shirt advertising a microbrewery, and the dazed look of a parent who has accepted chaos as a lifestyle choice.
“Agent Reid?”he asked, extending a hand.“Come in.Sorry about the noise.The kids are all off school with the ‘flu.”He made air-quotes and a face as he said ‘flu’, suggesting a degree of scepticism as to the illness, and Marcus instantly warmed to the guy.
Inside, the house was a riot of lived-in color.Toys under sofas, school drawings taped to walls, an open-plan kitchen full of mismatched mugs and the smell of pancakes.Two kids chased each other past Marcus, shrieking with joyful violence.A woman—presumably Phil’s wife—offered Marcus a distracted smile while trying to coax a toddler out of a cupboard.
Phil ushered Marcus through the mayhem toward a back room.
“Let’s hide in here,” he said.“My sanctuary.Where I pretend I still have hobbies.”
He pushed open the door to what might once have been a garage but was now a haphazard repository of guitars, sports memorabilia, comfy chairs, and a battered foosball table.A dartboard hung crookedly above an old fridge.
Phil gestured Marcus toward a chair.“Sorry.For the mess.I didn’t expect this today, obviously.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, and for the first time the shock fully showed.
“I still can’t believe it,” he admitted.“Tom’s dead.Murdered.It doesn’t make any sense.Not him.”
Marcus nodded, letting the moment breathe.“I’m sorry to bring this into your home.I know it’s a bad time.And I’m conscious you just got off an early flight.”
“It’s… look.My kids are in the next room.I don’t want to scare them.But—” He looked Marcus straight on.“I need to help.Whatever I can do.”
Marcus took out his notebook.“You worked with him how long?”
“Three years, nearly four.Co-partner at Garrett & Dehan Holdings.”He laughed humorlessly.“Should’ve done better homework.Turns out I was the only person in Boston who didn’t know the skeletons in Tom’s family closet.”
“What kind of skeletons?”
