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“Do you trust him?”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t know. She didn’t believe that Grant had known anything about the murder of their son last year. But what about now? He was paranoid, angry, worried...did he know more? Why wouldn’t he talk to the authorities? Why wouldn’t he tellher?
Charlie continued, “Meaning, you don’t think he’s somehow involved...”
“No.” But maybe she spoke too soon. Grant was acting suspicious, and his comment about everything he believed being a lie? What did that even mean?
“Something is going on with him,” she corrected herself. “But I don’t have enough information to figure it out. I will, though. I’m not leaving until he talks to me.”
“Tommy had a file on Grant’s boss in his office. Maybe Grant gave it to him, helped him compile it.”
“I certainly plan to ask him about it,” she said. “I need to track down Jenna Johns. She hasn’t returned my calls, but she doesn’t know me. Face-to-face, maybe at her work, would be best.”
“You think she has answers?”
“All I know is that Tommy talked to her nearly a dozen times in the last three weeks, and he believed that her sister was an accomplice in the Potomac Bank robbery.”
They sat there and watched as a cruiser turned toward them at the end of the street. Charlie said, “Regan, why wouldn’t Grant have told you everything he knows as soon as he found out that Tommy was dead?”
Why indeed.
Twenty-Four
Grant Warwick sat in his Mercedes in the garage of Maddie’s condo. She wasn’t going to like his decision. He didn’t like his decision. But hehateddoing nothing.
He closed his eyes and pictured his son. His head ached; for the last three weeks he’d been reliving Chase’s death.
Over the months he’d been able to compartmentalize his pain. The bad dreams weren’t every night; he could function day-to-day. He could focus on Maddie, fall in love. He needed that connection, needed to be held. He could remember Chase without a constant physical ache. Until Tom Granger called him three weeks ago.
Last night at Maddie’s, he’d woken up at three in the morning in a cold sweat, still feeling his son’s blood on his hands.
She hadn’t wanted him to leave, but he couldn’t stay, not when he had so much on his mind. He went home, showered, sat in his bedroom until dawn just staring at pictures of Chase. Trying to focus on the good times, and not that god-awful last day.
I wish it had been me. It should have been me.
It had been a Saturday night. Regan was working. She didn’t generally work weekends, but that night she and Charlie North were transporting a prisoner from New York to Cumberland Penitentiary and she wouldn’t be back until well after midnight. Grant didn’t like it, but it was her job. She had never complained about his long hours during the week, he could hardly complain when she had to work an occasional weekend.
They golfed in the morning with friends, another father and son from Chase’s school, had lunch at the golf club, then Grant dropped Chase off at a neighbor’s house to swim so he could get some work done at home.
“Dad! I’m home!”
Grant looked up from his work. Six thirty! Where had the time gone?
Chase walked into his office and said, “Sorry I’m late, I lost track of time.”
“So did I,” Grant said.
“Pizza?” Chase said, hopefully.
“I’ll put the mac and cheese that your mom made in the oven.” Regan wasn’t the best cook, but there were a few things she did well, like homemade mac and cheese.
“When’s she going to be home?”
“After your bedtime.”
“Wanna play video games?”
Grant wasn’t as interested in video games as his son, but he played because Chase loved them, and Grant wanted to spend time with him.
