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SUFFOLK, VIRGINIA
Prompted by his smartphone, Supervisory Special Agent Casey Fitzpatrick slowed his Lexus as he approached a freshly painted sign at the head of the driveway. There was nothing in this part of Suffolk, Virginia, but fields of cotton and forests of deciduous trees. The sign read: BACK-IN-THE-SADDLE HIPPOTHERAPY RANCH.
Horse therapy, Fitz determined, was notforhorses but referred to the benefits of riding them. He’d read an article about it once. People with all kinds of challenges—physical, mental, and even emotional—benefited from having to adjust to the horse’s movements. Interesting.
With a finger stab, Fitz curtailed the haunting aria from the operaCarmenas he turned down the graveled driveway. He was here to interview Faith Saunders, a woman who had called him at the FBI field office no less than six times between yesterday and this morning, asking for his help in finding her sister. She’d left her address as her messages became more desperate, stating she was too busy to drive to the Norfolk Field Office, and could he please come out and see her?
Clearly, she knew who Fitz was since she’d addressed him by his nickname. Since her voicedidsound familiar and since her sister’s situation sounded dire, Fitz’s curiosity got the better of him. He’d slipped into his car over the lunch hour and driven twenty minutes to the address she’d supplied. All the while, he racked his brain, trying to remember who she was. Her name was not in his lengthy contacts list, nor did he know any hippo-therapists.
The trees on either side of the driveway gave way to a clearing, in the middle of which stood a butter-yellow farmhouse in need of a fresh coat of paint. A large red barn stood off to his right with a fenced-in riding ring behind it. Fitz parked before the farmhouse, cut the engine and reached for his iPad.
As he rose from his car, he was struck by the peaceful quiet of Suffolk. Over the ruffling of leaves and the birdsong came the nicker of a horse. He started for the farmhouse, his glossy dress shoes crunching the gravel driveway. Bushes and weeds had overtaken the front yard. As he crossed the covered porch, the planks groaned beneath his weight, though he was not a large man at 190 pounds. Curtains in the front window kept him from seeing inside as he raised a hand to the door and knocked. It immediately popped open.
“Yeah?” A boy, perhaps thirteen years old, confronted him. His russet hair needed a trim. His scowl and hard hazel eyes were meant to chase Fitz off.
“Hello.” He tried to soften the rasp of his injured vocal cords, but the boy was already staring at the scar above his crisp white collar. “I’m Casey Fitzpatrick with the FBI.” He still wasn’t used to his new title of supervisory special agent. “Is Faith Saunders home?”
The hostility in the boy’s expression vanished. “She’s in the barn.” He eyed Fitz’s light green blazer, as if looking for his sidearm.
A blonde head poked out from under the boy’s arm. “You want to come in first? We made cupcakes.”
Fitz couldn’t help but smile at the friendly, freckle-faced girl of about six.
Her brother tugged her back from the door. “We don’t let strangers into the house.”
“He’s not a stranger. Mommy knows him.”
The words lit a fire under Fitz’s feet. He’d better remember who Faith Saunders was, and soon. “I shouldn’t keep your mother waiting.”
As he hastened toward the barn, the siblings’ bickering grew indistinct, at least until the girl shouted, “You can’t tell me what to do!”
The words strummed poignant memories. How long had it been since he’d heard his own children squabble? They’d been dead almost seven years now, long enough that his bottomless grief had dwindled to a constant ache.
Fitz could tell right away the barn had just been built. It touted a ruddy red stain, and the tempered wood of the adjoining fence still looked green. As he slipped through the slightly opened double doors, the scent of fresh lumber beckoned him into the cool shadows.
Dust motes floated in the rays of sunlight slipping through the boards of the sturdy outer wall, lighting his way. He walked the length of the building, scenting only a faint odor of horse manure but mostly that of fresh straw stacked in tight bales. As he passed one empty stall after another, he was starting to think he’d imagined hearing a horse until an enormous bay poked his head over the last stable door to stare at him.
“What’s the matter, Otis?” came a woman’s voice.
Rounding the horse’s head, Fitz encountered the wide eyes of the woman grooming the animal. She gasped, stilling her brushing. “Fitz!”
“Hello.” He knew her chestnut ponytail and heart-shaped face at once, but the reason eluded him until she yanked off her gloves, prompting a memory of her doing something similar at the hospital.
“Thank God you’ve come.” She tossed aside the gloves and went to let herself out of the stall.
How could he have forgotten her? Faith had been the first one to greet him when he’d been swept into the ER with a laceration to the neck more than eighteen months ago. She kept him calm and assured him he’d be fine, even as he choked on the blood pouring down his throat. Then later, after surgery, when he’d been moved upstairs to a hospital room, she dropped by to visit him and ended up staying for an hour.
As she eased out of the stall, it was impossible not to notice she was pregnant. Apart from that, she looked exactly as he remembered, with berry-red lips in a perpetual smile, sparkling brown eyes, and a dusting of freckles across her piquant nose.
“Thank goodness.” She embraced him briefly, her baby bump brushing his belt buckle.
The smells of leather and hay and bodywash teased his nostrils.
“I wasn’t sure you would actually show up.”
“Of course. How could I not?” No way would he admit he’d forgotten who she was.
“I know. I didn’t give you much choice, did I?” Her gaze fell briefly to his scar. “Your voice is almost normal.”
