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Chase had loved coming up here. He’d reveled in any outdoor activity, just like his mom. Together they hiked and climbed trees. They drove to the lake to fish. Fishing wasn’t Chase’s favorite—he got bored sitting still for too long—but he humored her, chatting about baseball and the Washington Nationals, and his nerves when he was pulled up to a higher age group for Little League. The coach had moved him from center to second base, and he was worried he’d fail. He was the smallest on the team, younger than the others by a year or more, and he was going from best player on the team to middle of the pack.
But Regan reminded him that he’d worked hard to get this slot, that they didn’t pick him because they were being nice, but because he fit the team and a need they had. That as long as he gave one hundred percent on the field in practice and in games, listened to the coach, and was a good teammate, he would have nothing to regret.
He’d had one season with that team, but that year Chase had bonded with the boys more than with any other team he’d been on. But it was here, in the Catskills the fall before he was killed, that Chase shared his hopes and fears with her, at the lake, fishing rods in hand.
She closed her eyes against threatening tears. Chase had been gone ten months, three weeks, and six days. She didn’t know when she’d stop counting, or if she could, if the passage of time would always be marked in the days since her son died. She’d thought returning six weeks ago for Chase’s birthday would give her that push to move forward, but haunting memories still crept in.
Sensing someone watching, she opened her eyes. She looked up at the deck. Grant stood rigid, watching her.
She’d been right.
She exited the truck, grabbed her go bag—which included two guns and extra ammo that she’d selected from Tommy’s gun safe—and walked up the stairs, tense, weary, needing answers. Grant didn’t move. He watched her walk toward him, his handsome, chiseled face drawn, pale, unshaven. His conservative haircut was rumpled, sticking up as if he’d just gotten out of bed. He looked older than thirty-nine, as if he’d aged even in the two days since she’d seen him.
“Are you here to arrest me?”
“I’m not a marshal.”
“I didn’t kill Maddie.”
“Good.”
She believed him. He was no saint, but murder wasn’t in him.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He stared at her; she stared back. Was he going to make this difficult?
“Yeah,” he said softly and walked into the house.
The place was a fishbowl. She didn’t know how safe or secure he was here. As soon as the sun went down, anyone with a visual of the house would be able to see inside. She didn’t know if his car had also been tracked, or if the tracker could work from a distance. She would assume if Grant had been tracked, it was the same type of device that she’d found on Tommy’s truck, which Charlie was having analyzed.
She worried about Grant’s safety—and hers—but she was also concerned that he might try to lie, obfuscate, ignore the obvious.
But if he was innocent, someone was framing him for murder.
And they planned to come after him next.
Grant knew enough to damage the people behind Chase’s murder. The people behind Tommy’s murder. Of that, Regan had no doubt.
More pieces started to fall into place. The only real questions she had—aside from a few nagging details—werewhoandwhy. Who was behind these crimes and why had they targeted her family?
Regan followed her ex inside.
Though the sun was a few hours from setting, she didn’t like how open the house was—two walls of windows that overlooked the creek and the valley. Definitely the fishbowl she imagined when she first drove up.
She walked over to the wall panel that controlled the blinds and pressed the button to lower them. Slowly, quietly, they descended. The house grew dim, so she turned on the kitchen light and made a pot of coffee.
The house had a two-story great room and the kitchen was in the center. A master bedroom and den were behind the kitchen, along with a powder room and large linen closet, plus access to the garage below. She checked the doors and made sure they were all locked. Upstairs were three bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. Two bedrooms accessed a balcony facing west, perfect for sunsets. She made a quick sweep of the upstairs. Grant wasn’t staying up here; the rooms were closed up, the vents closed, the beds stripped.
She went back downstairs and poured two cups of coffee. Sipped hers, put one in front of her ex.
Grant sat slumped at the kitchen table, staring into an empty cocktail glass of melting ice. It was not even the dinner hour and he was drinking. When did he start? She took the glass from him and put it in the sink. He’d been drinking Scotch. Grant wasn’t a big drinker, but when he did drink, it was always high-end Scotch.
She pushed the cup of coffee in front of him. He wasn’t drunk yet, but it looked like he was nursing a hangover with more alcohol.
She leaned against the counter. “I found Madeline’s body.”
Tears sprang to his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard, squeezing the inside of his eyes so hard it had to hurt.
