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Maybe the FBI agents would show up today, tomorrow, next week, but she wasn’t holding her breath. Agent Wexford didn’t sound all that interested in what she had to say and didn’t seem to think that what little she knew about Deputy Granger was relevant to what happened to him. They probably knew far more than she did, anyway, so that was a good thing, she figured. He was likely killed because of some other case. She felt bad about it—she had liked him, even if he was a bit on the intimidating side. He had genuinely seemed to care about what she had to say, and sympathized with her conflicting feelings about her sister—that she loved her sister, even if she may have committed a crime. She appreciated that he didn’t pass judgment on Becca, or her.
She’d tell Lance everything over dinner, and if he thought she should talk to the US Marshals directly, she’d do it. Maybe he’d come with her for moral support. She’d like that—this whole thing had put her on edge.
As she drove, she realized how foolish it was to disappear for two nights. She hadn’t told anyone where she’d been, she hadn’t brought her phone, and she’d spent nearly four hundred dollars on the cabin, gas, and food. The house was hers free and clear—it had been her parents’, and their insurance had covered the mortgage in full—but she was paying off her student loans and had her car payment. She couldn’t just go throwing money around like that.
It was nearly five by the time she pulled up in front of her small house on a charming tree-lined street. Her parents hadn’t been rich, but they had bought the three-bedroom, two-bath brick house near the Silver Springs border of Bethesda shortly after they were married—thirty-four years ago. Today it was worth well over what they paid for it.
Over the years, the house had caused friction between her and Becca. Becca had wanted to take money out of the house—she and Jenna were both listed on the deed. Jenna didn’t want a mortgage. At one point, Becca had demanded to sell the house, that they should each take half the money and do what they wanted. Jenna refused. They hadn’t talked for months after that, but Becca finally apologized and admitted Jenna was right, having the house was better than having the cash. Of course, Jenna forgave her—Becca was family and Jenna loved her.
But maybe Becca’s constant struggle with money had contributed to whatever mess she’d gotten herself into with Michael Hannigan.
Not that she deserved to be shot in cold blood. Nothing Becca had ever done warranted being killed.
Jenna turned up the long, steep driveway and stopped at the garage door in the back. The single-car garage was cluttered with Christmas decorations and stuff she couldn’t part with. A big cleanup was one of those projects she always had on her to-do list. It would be nice to have a garage to park in, especially when it was snowing.
She had two bags from Trader Joe’s, and she carried them in one hand with her overnight bag slung over her other shoulder. She walked up the back stairs to the deck, then entered the door that opened into a large, bright laundry room. She’d filled this space with hanging plants and colorful artwork. If Jenna had to do chores, she wanted the space around her to be appealing.
The kitchen wasn’t large—perhaps the house’s only drawback—and she put her bags on the counter. When she turned around, Jenna screamed, then grabbed her mouth as if trying to push the sound back in.
Her house was a disaster.
Every drawer in the dining room hutch had been opened, some only partially closed. The cushions in the living room were pulled out. The den, on the other side of the living room—where she had a desk and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a rocking chair—was the worst. Papers and books littered the floor. Her computer was gone.
She didn’t look through the rest of the house or even go upstairs. Instead Jenna went outside and called 911.
“I’ve been robbed.”
Her hands were trembling, and she almost couldn’t breathe.
“Please hurry, I don’t know if they’re still here and I’m scared.”
Someone had gone through her house, her sanctuary, and destroyed her things. Tears burned in her eyes. Why?
Because of Deputy Granger’s investigation?
Someone answered his phone. They know your name. They know where you live.
Jenna feared she would never be safe again.
Eighteen
Regan arrived at Buenos Gatos several minutes before seven and gratefully accepted the chips and salsa the waitress brought out. She would have enjoyed a margarita, but instead she ordered light beer. Regan loved tequila but wanted to be alert for her conversation with Grant.
She had written down several notes she wanted to address, mostly to keep them straight in her head, then pocketed her notepad so Grant didn’t think she was interrogating him.
He’d accused her of that, too, whenever she had a list of questions. She hadn’t seen anything wrong with keeping a running tab of things they needed to discuss—they both had busy jobs and sometimes only had an hour or two alone together in the evening—but Grant had seen it as a sign that she treated their marriage as a job or chore.
She’d reflected a lot on her marriage over the years, even before they lost Chase. Her parents had been married for more than twenty years before her mom died of cancer when Regan was in high school. Her dad was a cop, her mom a nurse. They had argued on occasion, but Regan never doubted they loved each other and their kids. They showed their love through the little things they did for each other, like when her mom would get up with her dad when he had early shift and make him breakfast, or when her dad would cook the nights her mom had a long shift. They balanced household chores in a way that seemed effortless, and Regan often caught them kissing in the kitchen or on the porch swing, holding hands, smiling at each other in a way that said they were the only two people in the world and they were happy.
Regan had never been overly demonstrative growing up—her younger brother and sister had always been far more emotional and exuberant. The ups and downs of their lives drained Regan, which could be why she shunned such behavior in her own life. Her older brother JT was more like her, though prone to being a hothead that had, fortunately, tempered once he became an adult.
Regan had always assessed a situation before acting. This made her well suited for the US Marshals Service. Experience and training had taught her to read almost any situation immediately. She didn’t discuss, she acted.
She remembered a time, years ago, when Chase was four or five. Grant was having a dinner party for the partners and junior partners and significant others at their home. He was anxious about it because he’d just been promoted to full partner—with his name on the building—and he wanted the dinner to be a great success. He asked her to help.
Regan asked Grant a few questions about what he wanted from the event, who was coming, and what image he wanted to project, then she made all the plans. She hired a cleaning service, a caterer, selected the menu based on what she knew would accommodate the variety of dietary preferences, went with a “rustic elegance” theme based on the advice of the catering company, who then brought in the tables and decorations for the party of forty.
Grant was livid. He had wanted to be involved, expected her to run everything by him, not just do it herself. She asked him what he would change, and he said nothing, but that wasn’t the point. She had not understood at the time, especially after the success of the event—and while she understoodnowthat he had wantedthemto make the decisions together, she knew what he wanted and had acted accordingly.
