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“I had one sip. I’ll be fine.”
Judy looked to her husband. “Walter, do something.”
“It’s the FBI.” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “What are we supposed to do?”
“I’ll be back later.”
Cassie knew she should explain more, relieve their anxiety, but her life was falling apart around her. If she couldn’t help herself, maybe she could help someone else. And if she solved Connor Grayson’s case, then maybe her mother would finally listen to her when it came time to tell her about her skills as an amateur detective. Not to mention her abilities as a psychic.
24
Senator Lawrence Grayson couldn’t remember how many bottles of whiskey he’d consumed since he found out his son had died. He couldn’t remember how many hours he spent staring into the void. Or how many hours he’d been conscious.
He couldn’t remember how many times Anastasia had tried to get him to focus on the big picture before she left to handle his business on her own.
He knew the consequences of being less than cooperative, but for all she preached about her humanity, she didn’t understand that sometimes you just had to drink away your sorrows and feel bad for yourself.
So, that’s what he was doing.
Grayson wouldn’t need to leave his office for some time if he didn’t want to. He had a fresh bottle of whiskey thanks to his security guard, and there was a fresh shirt tucked away somewhere if the occasion called for it. But no one was expecting to see his face for at least a few days. Maybe a week, if he was lucky.
How many bottles could he consume by then? Two a day? Three?
The only thought the alcohol hadn’t been able to numb was the image of his wife’s face when he’d told her what had happened to their son. The scream that had ripped its way out of her mouth was a primal sort of pain that reached deeper than he’d ever be able to feel. Only mothers could know the depths of that kind of agony.
She had howled and collapsed and cried and gone catatonic. He knew what she wanted—to have their son back—and he couldn’t give it to her. There was no next best thing.
After that, Grayson had retreated to his office. He’d had his meeting with Anastasia. There was a point at which he’d been coherent enough to offer his two cents on a plan of how to move forward. He’d lost his son, but he wouldn’t lose his career. He’d even convinced himself that he could use his career to honor his son’s life.
But that was just an excuse to bury himself in his work.
With a dull sort of panic, he thought about those FBI agents. Especially the young one. Viotto. He’d been asking a lot of questions. Had seemed suspicious. Anastasia told him not to worry about it. If he looked worried, then he’d look guilty.
The problem was, Senator Lawrence Grayson didn’t just look guilty.
He was guilty.
Grayson turned to his computer and pressed the button to light up the monitor. Viotto had pushed him about his relationship with his son. About the arguments they’d had in the weeks leading up to his death.
But Grayson was careful. He’d always been careful. He knew how to cover his tracks. Knew how the government worked. Knew which senators would look the other way and which senators needed a little green in the palms of their hands.
When Grayson’s desktop appeared on the monitor, he took a moment to account for all the files he had stored there. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Nothing was incriminating. He wasn’t so stupid as to store sensitive information on his office computer.
His email dinged, and he clicked on the message out of habit. He didn’t give a shit what it said, and even less so when he saw it was yet another condolence letter from one of his colleagues. They didn’t care about him or his son. So many of them had gone out of their way to tell him he needed to learn to control his son, that his son’s actions reflected poorly on the senate, that his son would be the reason Grayson would never be president.
Grayson scrolled through his emails. Dozens of them from people whose names he couldn’t even put to faces. He wondered how many genuinely pitied him, as disgusting as that was, and how many of them wanted to be able to say I reached out to you when you were in a dark place. Shouldn’t that mean something? Can I count on your vote for such-and-such?
Politics was a dirty business. And there was enough handshaking going around that ensured no one was clean.
Grayson was about to close out the window when he caught sight of a name that made his heart shudder to a stop.
Sender: Connor Grayson
Subject: Surprise
The time stamp on the message was mere hours before his death. Given the chaos surrounding his disappearance and abandoned vehicle, Grayson hadn’t seen the email come in. It was likely no one else had either. Nobody had access to this inbox, not even his secretary. Detective Davenport hadn’t asked for permission or gotten a warrant. Even that pain-in-the-ass FBI agent, Viotto, hadn’t let slip that he knew his son had reached out to him on the day of his death.
Before Grayson knew what he was doing, he dragged his cursor over to the message and clicked on it. Was he incriminating himself by looking? Would they be able to tell when he opened it? It didn’t matter. He had to know.
