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She brought up the bank’s website and realized this number went to the same bank that Mike Hannigan had attempted to rob two years ago.
There was a note on Tommy’s calendar for a meeting with Stuart Van Horn, scheduled the day after the phone call he made to that specific branch. Regan remembered the bank manager.
She didn’t have time to contemplate why Tommy had met with Van Horn because her cell phone rang.
It was after ten. She’d been hunched over Tommy’s notes and computer for three hours. She stretched as she answered the call.
“Hi, Dad.”
“You settled in okay?”
“I texted you when I got here.” She was too tired and sore to be humored that her father was checking up on her. She got up and walked the room, rolling out her stiff neck and shoulders.
“You’re staying at Granger’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that’s safe?”
“He has a basic home security system to alert me if there’s an intruder. I’m being careful, Dad.”
Her dad had wanted to come to Virginia with her, but she said no. He didn’t push, but she could tell he wasn’t happy about her decision. Former sheriff John Merritt rarely had people tell him no. She had considered letting him join her—she appreciated and welcomed her dad’s insight and experience—but her gut told her that he didn’t want to help her investigate: he wanted to watchher. She didn’t need or want a babysitter.
“Will you check in regularly?” he asked.
“I will.”
“I assume you’re staying until the memorial service.”
“Yes.”
“Longer?”
“Maybe.” It wasn’t like she had a job or anything else to do. That had been grating on her for a while. She didn’tneedto work yet—between her savings, her half of the proceeds from the sale of the house, and the fact that she was living almost free with her dad—there had been no rush to find a second career.
“If you need me out there, just say the word.”
“I appreciate that, Dad. I mean it. And if I need to bounce around theories, I’ll call.”
“Anytime, Regan.”
“Iamfine,” she reassured him.
“I can’t help but worry. You’re too much like me. I know that you’re suffering, and you won’t let anyone see it.”
Yep. She and her father suffered in silence, as her mom used to say. Regan hadn’t really understood what it meant until her mother became ill with cancer and died a year later. Her father had been a rock, but he didn’t cry—at least not around his children—and he didn’t yell or complain or curse God. He justdid.
For the most part, that was Regan. Instead of crying, she took long walks or hiked. Got out of the house, got out of her head. It worked, for her.
She rarely spoke about her feelings of rage over how the FBI handled Chase’s murder, and when she did speak of the situation to her family or her former colleagues, she was matter-of-fact. Removed from the details. When Peter Grey killed Hannigan in jail, she had demanded answers—and when she didn’t get them, she didn’t scream or knock heads together. She had no answers—and had no way to get answers. Staying had become untenable. So she left.
“I’m not going to lie to you and say it’s easy being here,” she told her dad. “But it was harder six weeks ago than today.”
Silence. Some things really didn’t need a conversation. Her dad really did understand her.
“I love you, Dad. I’ll call you later.”
She appreciated her dad reaching out to her, but right now she needed to think about Tommy. Talking to him had just brought back all her feelings of being unsettled.
