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“Thank you, Jeff,” Grant said.
“Coffee? Water?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” Regan said.
Jeff smiled at Regan, then closed the door behind him.
“Hi, Grant.”
He stared at her for a moment and she took in the changes. Grant looked tired and he’d lost weight, at least ten pounds, and he’d never been overweight. Still, he was a handsome man. His chiseled features, dark hair graying at the sides—he would be forty next year, but it wouldn’t matter. Grant had the timeless good looks of men like Cary Grant and George Clooney, the kind of man who took care of his mind and body and would turn heads well into his seventies.
Being tired wasn’t unusual, especially if he was working on a complex and timely legal matter. The weight loss was out of character. Even if he was busy, Grant made a point of eating right, going to the gym three times a week, and being active on the weekends—golf, a friendly basketball game, biking, sailing. His love of the outdoors had attracted her, even though she preferred camping and hiking and Grant refused to sleep in a tent.
Now that she was here, Regan didn’t know how to begin. Grant looked as uncomfortable as she felt. This was the man she had once loved, the man who had fathered her only child, the man who grieved as much as she when their son was killed. She walked over and hugged him.
He kissed her. Lightly, not a romantic kiss. He stepped away quickly, but not before she felt him trembling.
“I told you I was working, that we’d talk later,” he said. “Now is not a good time.”
She sat in the chair across from his desk. She wasn’t leaving without answers.
“Regan—” he began.
“Sit a minute,” she said quietly. “Please.”
He took his desk chair, his wide desk between them. Why did he seem nervous?
She noticed a photo of him and Chase on his desk. She picked it up, stared at it. She’d taken this picture after one of Chase’s baseball games. He’d been eight here, grinning ear to ear and holding up the game ball because he’d gone four-for-four at the plate including an honest triple—no errors from the other team. She put it down as if it burned her hand, spotted another photo on the credenza behind the desk—of Grant and Madeline McKenna, his girlfriend, on a sailboat.
She motioned to that photo. “How’s Madeline?”
“You don’t really care, do you?”
“I’m being polite. I know you’re seeing her—I’m not going to fall apart. Our divorce was mutual.”
“Madeline is well, thank you.”
Regan had known Madeline since she began working at Archer Warwick, and always suspected Madeline took advantage of Grant’s vulnerability after Chase’s murder. Regan sensed that the woman had been half in love with her husband for years. But as long as Grant was happy, that’s all that mattered. She had never hated him.
“Good.”
“Regan, I’m serious. Iambusy, and now isn’t a good time to have a real conversation. Like I said, come to my place tonight, we’ll talk.”
“I’ve been trying to talk to you for two days. Maybe it didn’t sink in: Tommy Granger was murdered.”
“You told me. I’m sorry.” He sounded almost cold.
“Tommy was investigating Chase’s murder,” she said. “I believe it’s why he was killed.”
Grant jumped up. “I’m not going down that dark road with you, not again.Neveragain. Is that why you wanted to meet?”
He was practically shouting. His anger reinforced Regan’s calm, but his reaction was over-the-top. The fury in his voice didn’t reach his eyes.
“Sit down, Grant.”
He didn’t. He paced behind his desk, agitated. Very unlike the man she’d been married to for twelve years. “We’re not doing this, Regan. The FBI did a thorough investigation and you damn well know that Adam Hannigan killed Chase becauseyoukilled his brother.”
Grant’s comment stung. First, because she knew it wasn’t true, but mostly because he believed it—or she thought he had for the last ten and a half months. If he believed the FBI story, why would he be working with Tommy?
