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Brodie is an agent, and his wife was murdered.
It could be a coincidence, but damn, that would be an extreme twist of fate.
As quickly as I can without waking Lucy, I race out of her room, stopping at the wall of photographs. I’ve scanned them a hundred times the past week, but this time, I look for any indication of the date the images were taken.
Most show Lucy as a newborn baby, but a handful are a couple of months later.
None with her mother go past the six-month one Brodie snapped of Caroline lying with Lucy on the measurement blanket they took photographs on to document her milestones.
It was snapped the week before my mother was killed.
“No…” I murmur, sickened. “This can’t be true.”
Desperate for answers, I yank my cell out of my pocket and dial a frequently called number.
Amelia’s voicemail answers on her behalf. “You’ve reached Amelia—"
As I gallop down the stairs, I hang up and dial again.
It isn’t even nine. There’s no way she’s already gone to bed.
When I reach her voicemail for the second time, I leave a message.
“Call me. It’s urgent.”
Instincts direct me into Brodie’s office. I’ve been in here multiple times the past two weeks, but I never paid the decor much attention until now. It is dark and moody, as morose as the fear making its way up my throat from my stomach.
Photographs of Lucy line one shelf, half a bottle of whiskey is hidden in the bottom drawer, and Brodie’s laptop sits on top of a filing cabinet, but other than that, his office is a standard home office. Nothing gives away what happened to Caroline, and there isn’t a single scrap of paper to appease my worry.
“Because everything is digital these days,” I murmur while recalling Amelia saying the same thing to me only days ago. “Even someone as ancient as Hillary Seabourn would correspond electronically.”
After sitting in Brodie’s chair, I pull over his laptop and crack open the screen. I’m taken aback by an error message after I type in Caroline’s name.
Assuming my shaking hands made me miss a key, I type it in slower this time.
The error message remains.
Determined, I go through the list Amelia and I worked through days ago.
I smile when his password is as simple as his daughter’s given name.
My hand rattles when I scroll past the files on the desktop. My father never kept imperative files in plain sight. They were always hidden deep in the server, far from the prying eyes of his inquisitive daughter.
I stumble onto the jackpot when I find a locked file under a “budgets” tab. No one locks their budget files. The people rich enough to have anything to lose don’t need a budget, and the rest of us have no shame displaying financial maturity.
I’ve had a budget since I saved up for my first Rise Up tickets.
Amelia will never have one.
With the file stating it hasn’t been opened this month, I type Brodie’s old passcode into the password field. It opens the file on an insurance claim that would make a bank clerk’s eyes water if she was required to count each denomination by hand. The figure is excessive and displays Brodie could live as elaborately as the Ashburns when he cashes it in.
After closing down the seven-figure life insurance policy, I scroll through the files until I stumble onto one with a familiar keyword.
Case File: 70003417
I work my throat through a hardy swallow before flicking through the “victim profiles” in the file. I knew the diversity of the suspect’s victims was wide-ranging, but I had no clue how many ethnicities were involved until it takes several clicks to reach the woman I’m searching for.
It isn’t Caroline.
It is my mother.
Victim fourteen out of twenty-one—twenty-seven if you include the aftermath of the assailant’s crimes.
Some couldn’t continue after their loss.
Some died with their wives.
Then some were freed from the torment simply because children weren’t a part of the madman’s revenge.
I learn that Lucy was the latter when my sluggish click past my mother’s profile has me stumbling onto a pair of dark-brown eyes, golden hair, and a smile identical to Lucy’s in every way.
Caroline.
26
BRODIE
“Thanks for coming in.” Macy holds open the west entrance door of our local HQ before gesturing her head to my cell phone I’ve just pulled out of my pocket. Thane called during my commute, but with a storm rolling in, I couldn’t hear a word he spoke. “You’ll need to check that.” When I give her a look as if to say are you serious? she bobs her head. “There’s been a handful of mishaps the past month. They’re not taking any chances anymore.”
“Such as?”
Before she can answer me, we’re interrupted by another agent. “Brodie, it’s been a while.” Agent Grayson Rogers slaps my hand before clutching it for a firm shake. He’s younger than me, a hundred times cockier, but a good agent. “This is bullshit, but we appreciate your willingness to help.” He locks eyes with Macy. “Conference Room Three?”
