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She turned into his den, not so much a cozy den as a book-filled library with dark shelves original to the house, more than a hundred years old. Thrillers and history books and a full collection of Westerns that Tommy had enjoyed the most. The den looked out into the fenceless backyard. She stood in the threshold and smelled Tommy. Bay Rum and pine and leather. This was where she would have to start, but not yet. She needed a few minutes to gather her thoughts, regroup, settle her emotions. She turned from the room and headed upstairs.
She remembered when Tommy had refinished the staircase. It had taken him weeks to sand, repair, treat, and stain the original wood. The result a deep brown with a hint of red. To protect the finish, he’d installed a carpet stair runner in navy down the center; the result was classic and stately.
He’d told her time and time again that to do anything well, you had to pay attention. Renovating his house or chasing a fugitive. To Tommy, the devil was in the details. Skip a step, and you would have to start over on a project, or you’d lose your convict. Everything he did, he was methodical and disciplined.
He had answers. Maybe not all the answers, but he had enough where he felt he could lay out his theory to her, to Charlie, to the deputy director in DC. And someone killed him to prevent him from sharing.
She’d stowed her bag in the guest room earlier, but now walked into Tommy’s room. It smelled like him, a subtle scent from basic Dove soap. His bed was made; the room tidy, uncluttered. Large, chunky furniture that fit the large, square master suite. Custom cabinets and drawers filled the closet. Tactical gear took up one wall—marshals were provided basic protective gear, but most upgraded their vests at their own expense and had other equipment for drills and games and training. He had a gun safe installed. She thought about what Charlie had said—to make sure she had guns accessible, just in case. She verified she still knew his code.
It worked.
Closing the safe, she walked back to the bed, stared at it for a moment debating if she should stay here, in this room. Then she lay down upon it, her head on his pillow. Closed her eyes.
She didn’t cry. She wanted to, but tears never came easy to her. Instead, she let the emotions she’d been repressing since yesterday morning, which had given her this dull throbbing headache, roll over her.
She hadn’t loved Tommy. She wanted to, but she wasn’t certain she could love anyone after her failed marriage and son’s death. She and Tommy had been friends. Nothing romantic between them, but a good working chemistry and solid friendship. When Grant cast blame on her for Chase’s death, it was Tommy she went to, Tommy she cried with.
And then six weeks ago.
Regan flew to Virginia the morning of April 2, Chase’s birthday. She hadn’t told anyone that she was coming—only her father knew—and until she boarded the plane, she wasn’t certain she could go through with it.
Chase had been dead for nine months. He shouldn’t have been. He should have been celebrating his eleventh birthday at Nationals Park, watching his favorite baseball team play.
The grief she felt—grief, guilt, deep sorrow—filled every cell of her body. She thought she’d been handling it after quitting the Marshals and moving back to her family home in Arizona. She had always been close to her family, and she needed them—especially her dad—during those dark days. She’d reconnected with her oldest friend. They went for walks and hikes. Regan made a conscious effort to be active in the community.
She still didn’t know what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, but that was okay—living day-to-day, regaining her center. The grief was still there, but it wasn’t debilitating. She thought of Chase a lot, but not every minute of the day. And when she did think of him now...when she passed a baseball field or an elementary school or saw anything that reminded her of him...it wasn’t pain that hit her first. She’d begun having memories that made her smile rather than filling her with loss. She could look at his picture and not want to scream. She could even talk about him, about the fun they’d had both together and as a family, without wanting to run away from her feelings.
But as his birthday crept closer, the old grief returned and she felt the overwhelming need to say goodbye again.
She no longer lived in Virginia; she had visited his grave often when she did, always leaving it filled with anger and deep pain. But it had been five months since she moved to Arizona; she needed to...hell, she didn’t know. She just had the overwhelming urge to remember her son, to mourn him, to sit with him.
So she flew out on the red-eye, rented a car, and drove to where he was buried, at a beautiful site near the Blue Ridge Mountains.
She’d been there an hour, sitting against his headstone, her head between her knees, unable to get up even when it started to rain. The rain was light, almost welcome, as if God wept for her. Then Grant arrived with flowers. He did not seem surprised to find her there at Chase’s final resting place.
He sat next to her in his thousand-dollar suit and they just...sat. He invited her to his townhouse for a late lunch. She said no, but for the first time she didn’t look at Grant with grief and anger. When they talked, it was bittersweet. They remembered the good times, and there had been many. But if they had too much time together, one of them, both of them, would eventually speak words that hurt the other.
When they parted in the parking lot, she drove to Tommy’s house. Waited until he came home and when he saw her, he knew why she was there. He fed her, didn’t talk about Chase, or Grant, or her dry, red eyes. She had planned to check in to a hotel. He asked her to stay.
Did he know, like she did, that if she stayed, they would end up in bed together?
She stayed.
She loved him, but she wasn’t in love with him. There was too much...stuff...clouding her emotions. But that night, she let herself be in the moment without guilt, without grief, without overthinking every damn thing.
She and Tommy had sex, and it wasn’t awkward. Two friends who knew each other well—who could joke around, talk, laugh, and satisfy each other. They didn’t sleep much. Maybe they both knew this was the one and only night they would have together, so they wanted to make it last, make the sex memorable, an emotional and physical connection that grounded Regan, reminded her that she was solid and whole and could reclaim her life.
Not her old life. Maybe not a better life. But for the first time, she believed that she could live fully again.
Yes, she loved Tommy. But she knew then that their relationship would go no further.
Seven
Jenna Johns had scoured the news all day, but it wasn’t until six o’clock that she found out that Deputy Granger had been murdered.
The newscaster didn’t have much information about the crime but revealed that the victim of a shooting at his home in Reston on Monday morning was a US marshal out of the Eastern District, Thomas V. Granger the third.
The FBI is investigating the murder of assistant deputy chief Granger as a possible revenge killing. A sixteen-year veteran of the US Marshals Service, following a decorated three-year career in the US Marines, Granger had worked several high-profile cases, including the apprehension of nineteen escaped prisoners. Three years ago he led a team of highly trained marshals into the Shenandoah National Park to apprehend four violent fugitives who’d escaped Cumberland and taken two women hostage. While there are no suspects at this time, the FBI is asking anyone with information to contact the Washington field office at...
