She tried to push the image out of her mind as she grabbed the school directory and got in the car.
But it lingered. A piece of notebook paper smeared with what looked like blood, nailed to the trunk of a tree in front of the house.I know where you livewritten in block letters with a black marker. She’d taken a picture and texted it to Mike Rodriquez. Wearing gloves, she’d zipped it into a plastic bag. He asked her to bring it into the office on Monday.
Disgusting. Deliberate. And just out of range of the Ring camera.
Hawkeye Slaughter’s most recent threat echoed in her mind.
I can’t wait to kill you slowly and watch you die.
Shuddering, she slammed the car door. She only had the bandwidth for one crisis at a time.
Her stomach twisted in a knot as she squinted down at the address in the directory: 783 Potomac Shores.
An exclusive neighborhood, overlooking the river. She’d heard the governor lived near here, in a huge house with his wife, Ainsley, and their kids.
The former owner of the Washington Commanders had a home down there too. It was on the market for something like $35 million. She and her husband had joked about putting in an offer before they bought their house on Beaverbrook Lane four years ago.
She swallowed a sigh. If only he were here right now. Brendan’s height and build were average, but he hadpresence, and he radiated quiet intimidation when necessary.
Like on their flight to Orlando for that Disney trip last spring. The obnoxious man sitting across the aisle made the flight attendant cry. When the drink cart passed, Brendan stood, put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and whispered a few words into his ear. The man turned pale and did not speak another word for the rest of the flight.
Of course, none of this mattered because Brendan wasn’t here. As usual. Leaving her to handle yet another domestic drama alone.
She punched the address into the GPS and tossed the directory into the passenger seat.
Then she squared her shoulders. She could handle this. She’d once negotiated with a mad doomsday prophet in Idaho and gotten him to release the twenty-three women and children locked inside his compound, unharmed. She’d protected diplomats from terrorists in war zones.
But she’d also brought the entire DC metro area to a standstill. All because she chose to believe the schizophrenic man who said his white panel van was filled with explosives when he parked it next to the Lincoln Memorial and refused to move.
She’d looked at the information, made a determination of threat, and been wrong.
And maybe she was wrong again now.
Maybe Alex Orlov’s parents were lovely, responsible people who had no idea what their son was doing.
Maybe they’d understand, even be grateful she was bringing the issue to their attention.
Thus armed with a positive attitude instead of her service weapon, she headed for the big houses overlooking the Potomac.
Chapter Ten
Kiersten
On Saturday afternoon, Kiersten herded her children to a lonely corner on the left side of the dugout for Matt’s second game of the day and set up camp. The other team parents sat together in a little cluster of lawn chairs on the right side of the field, a settlement that did not welcome outsiders.
Most of the kids on this travel team had been playing together for years, and their parents had apparently decided they didn’t have space in their lives for new friends.
She didn’t blame them. How many times had she done the same thing? Engrossed in a conversation with her buddies, failing to notice, much less include, someone new, someone she didn’t know.
She’d tried to focus on the game but found no comfort there either. Matt had pitched four perfect innings in the first game; then he fell apart. In the second game, he struck out early and missed an easy pop fly. The coach benched him and put someone else on the mound as he sat in the dugout, icing his shoulder.
Gratitude stole over her, followed by a sharp pang of guilt as she realized the combination of a second loss and torrential rain in the forecast meant tomorrow morning’s game would be canceled. If they won, they’d have to stay over. But if they lost, they could go home tonight.Was there a German word for this parental mixed feeling of relief and guilt, likeloserfreudeorguiltenschnapple?
With her other boys playing happily with a gang of younger siblings and a soccer ball a few yards away, and Matt sitting on the bench, she gave up all pretense of watching the game and reached into her purse for the diary she’d found in the basement.
After a furtive glance at the loyal and committed baseball parents who cared deeply about the outcome of the game, she managed to shield the open diary with her purse and began to read.
Chapter Eleven
