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“Tommy left a message for me the morning he was killed. He had evidence—he was going to his boss, wanted to tell me. Then he was killed. And I know that you were—”
He cut her off. “You need to go.” He strode to the door, but he didn’t open it.
She rose, approached him. She touched his arm and quietly said, “What’s going on with you, Grant?”
He didn’t respond.
“I have Tommy’s calendar, his phone records. I know you—”
He grabbed her by the arms, pulled her to him, and it took all her self-control not to bring him to his knees.
He practically growled in her ear. “Shut. Up. I think my office is bugged.” Then as quickly as he grabbed her, he let her go.
She processed his words.Bugged.What in the world was going on?
“I’m really sorry about Tom,” Grant said, “but we were never friends, you know that.” Grant paused, as if waiting for her to respond, but she was still processing his previous comment. “When are you going home?” he asked.
“After his memorial. It’s next week.”
Grant nodded. “We’ll get together before you go if you’d like. Dinner maybe?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight is fine, unless I’m running late with this case.”
“Walk me out.”
He stared at her, his eyes hollow yet full of emotion—confusion, anger, concern.
“Of course,” he said as if they didn’t just have a very odd exchange.
He opened his door, was about to say something to Jeff, when Franklin Archer walked into Grant’s outer office.
“Regan! I heard you were here. I hope you didn’t plan on leaving without saying hello.” Franklin smiled broadly. Franklin was the same height as Regan—five foot eight—physically fit, with thick blond hair that didn’t show much gray; light, intelligent eyes; and impeccably dressed, just like Grant.
She glanced at her ex. Grant wasusuallyimpeccably dressed, but today his belt was black on a light suit, and the white shirt didn’t quite fit the overall look. Definitely preoccupied.
“Franklin,” she said and smiled, letting him hug her. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Grant told me a friend of yours died. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
What had Grant said about Tommy? And when?
“Thank you.”
“Will you be here long?”
“A week or so.”
“I hope you can join Isabelle and me for dinner one evening. She asks about you all the time.”
Isabelle was Franklin’s wife of twenty years. They had met in college, married after they both graduated from law school. She’d been a lawyer in the firm until she decided to stay home and raise their twin daughters after an unexpected pregnancy when she was thirty-eight. Their girls were now fourteen.
“How are Isabelle and the girls?”
“Amazing. Truly—you have to see them. Isabelle would never forgive me if I didn’t make you come.”
“You have my number. We’ll try to make it happen.”
