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She thought she had been moving on from Chase’s murder. She’d been living at home since October. She and her dad were gutting the small apartment above the barn—where her granddad had lived for years before he died—so that she would have her own space. But truth be told, she didn’t mind sharing a house with her dad. Maybe that wasn’t healthy now that she was thirty-five, but there was a deep comfort in being able to go home and grieve.
Yet, she had been indecisive on what she was going to do for the rest of her life now that she quit the Marshals. Despite having had months to think it over, Regan had yet to make a decision.
That was unlike her.
She was about to go to bed—it was late, and she wanted to get started early in the morning—but she was still flummoxed that she hadn’t found any of Tommy’s files or notes related to his conversation with Peter Grey or Chase’s murder. She really didn’t want to read about Chase’s murder—she knew every detail—but if Tommy had learned something, he would have had notes, ideas, theories.Somethingshe could use to find his killer.
She sat down at his desk and closed her eyes. Remembered the single worst call a parent can get.
It was a Saturday night. She wasn’t supposed to be working, but she and Charlie had been called to transport a prisoner from upstate New York down to Virginia.
They were two hours from the prison at eight thirty at night when her cell phone rang. It was Grant.
“Chase was shot, Regan. He was shot. Chase, my boy, he’s dead. Oh God, he’s dead.”
The sobs filled the line but she was in shock. She couldn’t have heard him right. How could Chase be dead? He and Grant were at home.
“Where are you? Are you at the hospital? What happened? Chase is going to be okay. What hospital? I’ll be right there.”
She said it even as the cold rolled through her at what Grant had said; believing he was wrong, that he was scared. Something happened...but not what he said. Right?
“Grant, where are you?”
An unfamiliar voice came on the phone. “Mrs. Warwick?”
“This is US Marshal Regan Merritt. I’m Grant’s wife. Where is my son?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was going to tell you like that...”
“Where. Is. My. Son.”
“There was a shooting, we don’t have all the details, but your son was shot while in your sunroom. The shooter was in the backyard, we’re still investigating and—”
“What hospital? Where was he taken?”
“I’m sorry, Marshal. He was killed instantly. The coroner just arrived and...”
There was a commotion over the phone and she heard yelling in the background, but she couldn’t distinguish who was speaking. Then a familiar voice came on. “Regan? Regan? It’s Tommy.”
“Tommy. What is going on? Tell me. Please.” Her voice cracked, but Tommy wouldn’t lie to her.
“Come home, Regan.”
“Is Chase—God. No. Please. Tell me.”
“Just come home. I’ll be here.”
Regan opened her eyes. They felt heavy, as if she had been sleeping or crying; she’d done neither. Memories had weight, and she felt the past drag her entire body. She knew she needed sleep.
She got up and was about to turn off the desk lamp when her eyes focused on the cabinets below the built-in bookshelves. Though she believed Tommy had taken everything important with him—and therefore the killer now had the information—maybe he had copies or notes in his files.
She opened cabinets and looked inside—four doors concealed two shelves each. Inside were magazine holders, the kind you might see in a library, labeled with cases. He kept files on all his major cases at the Marshals Service, mostly his own personal notes, his copies of the files. He had dozens labeled by date. She went to the end.
There she found it.
No date, but the label read: WARWICK.
Her heart skipped a beat.
