Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

T he doldrums had set in. Forensics on Taft were in—he’d been roofied and murdered the same as the others. There were no DNA links, and unfortunately no fingerprints. What they did have was surveillance footage from the hotel. Tracey was going cross-eyed on it this very minute.

Unfortunately, it was their last piece of physical evidence. After this, they were spinning in the wind.

Sarena had reluctantly returned to the File Pile, as she called it, to determine if there were any new pressing cases.

Perry had been pulled into Sutherland’s office each day for the last week, caught up in something else they weren’t yet sharing with the team.

Jon was off chasing the Enlightened Covenant Ministries slimeballs. In their off hours, he’d explained to Tracey that he was pursuing the basis for a future raid on the compound. However, he said it was too soon to disclose details.

So Tracey flipped through frame after frame, watching a medium-height, medium-build man wearing a face-obscuring baseball cap approach the motel room where Beckett Taft would die. The camera quality was crap, blurry pixels blowing any chance of identifying clothing labels, tattoos, or other distinguishing features.

The parking lot cameras were no better. The shot of the car that dropped the perp off was so bad, Tracey couldn’t even tell what make and model it was, let alone get a license plate. To stay engaged, he contemplated the press release phrasing with side-by-side shots of the car and the clearest image of the man in the hopes someone would come forward.

His desk phone rang, and he answered on autopilot. “Smith.”

The switchboard operator informed him of an incoming call from Curtis Donnelly.

Tracey’s scalp prickled, his posture snapping ramrod-straight. “Put him through, please.” The line gave its telltale clicking as the call was transferred. “Mr. Donnelly, this is Special Agent Tracey Smith. How can I help you?”

Next to him, Sarena whipped her head up, then grabbed her phone’s handset, hit mute, and pressed a series of buttons to listen to the call without giving away her presence on the line.

“I think we spoke—honestly, the days are all blurred together. I can’t remember how long ago it was you called me. You asked some follow-up questions about Wyatt Powell.” Donnelly’s deep Southern drawl was very pronounced, as if fatigue somehow made him more Georgian.

“Yes.” Tracey grabbed a pen and a legal pad from his desk organizer and readied himself to take notes. “Did you think of something that might help us catch his killer?”

There was a pause, a big sigh, and then Donnelly’s voice came through softer, but no less clear. As though he’d made a decision. “Agent Smith, I’m in Washington. Is there any chance you could meet me somewhere we can talk? Privately. And not at your office. I’ve had about enough of law enforcement shoving me into interrogation rooms. No offense.”

His heart trip-hammered. Curtis Donnelly had traveled to see him in person . Whatever this was, it was big. “No offense taken.” Tracey wracked his brain for somewhere to meet the man, but all he could picture were very public places he’d been with Perry, Sarena, and Jon.

He wasn’t even cleared to drive, so he couldn’t borrow a Bureau-issued sedan and pick the man up for a chat in a car. Sarena could, but he didn’t think Donnelly would agree to multiple agents descending on his location.

Fuck it. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

“Mr. Donnelly, there’s a restaurant called the Iron Gate in Dupont Circle. I’ll make us a reservation for the garden patio. It’s not private in the sense that it’s a public place, but it’s quiet, secluded, and no one will bother us. If you give me your cell number, I’ll text you the reservation time as confirmation.”

Donnelly rattled off the number. “Thank you, Agent Smith.” The line went dead.

Startled, Tracey stared at the handset before replacing it in the cradle.

“You make that reservation for two since you seem to have earned his trust, but then you reserve a second table for Jon and me.” Sarena’s stern tone startled him out of his shock.

“What? Why?”

She raised a brow at him. “After what happened on the last case, you think you’re going off to meet this guy alone?”

“You went to Chicago to meet Paul Wolfe alone.”

That deflated her a smidge. “Touché. But you’re still reserving two tables. My hackles are up and I’m following my gut.”

“Fine.” He phoned the restaurant, hoping their lunch reservations weren’t difficult to come by. They were in luck. He texted Donnelly the time and address.

An hour later, he entered the restaurant right on time. Sarena and Jon followed at enough distance to seem apart from him. He told the host his name and was taken through to the garden patio, where he was led to a table occupied by a lone figure facing away from the metal stairs.

Curtis Donnelly didn’t stand in greeting. Tracey sat and was given a menu. When the waiter came to take their drink orders and tell them the lunch specials, Tracey asked for water, ordered the top item under the mains without looking at it and then requested privacy during their meal. Donnelly ordered the same thing.

“Do you mind if I record this meeting?”

Donnelly waved a hand at the question, the movement weary and beyond caring. The man appeared to have been through a meat grinder. It pulled at something human in Tracey, and he leaned his forearm on the table to get closer and drop his voice.

“Are you all right, Mr. Donnelly?”

“Please, if I’m spilling my guts, the least you can do is call me Curtis.”

“Are you spilling your guts, Curtis?”

“Yes.”

Tracey set up his recorder and spoke into it the date, time, his credentials, and to whom he was speaking. Then he gave Curtis the go-ahead.

He took a deep breath. It was then Tracey noticed, underneath the exhausted veneer, the heavy eye bags, and the deep frown lines around his mouth, how handsome he was. Blond hair in a clean-cut, preppy style, sharp blue eyes, and a full mouth beneath a straight nose. He was in his early or mid-thirties, dressed in designer-brand clothing, and in another life, Tracey could picture him as a man accustomed to attention.

Now though, attention seemed like the last thing he wanted. His shoulders were hunched, arms crossed over his middle, closed off. Barely upright. One could have argued he leaned toward the recorder for the mic to pick up his voice, but Tracey didn’t think so. He was making himself small, as though to avoid any new blows.

He stared at nothing in the middle of the table instead of meeting Tracey’s eyes and began speaking.

“Wyatt Powell wasn’t my best friend. He was the love of my life.”

Tracey stayed neutral, but that was not what he’d expected. “My sincerest condolences for your loss.”

Curtis paused and only then did he look up. “You know, you’re the only one who’s said that to me. You said it on the phone that morning, too. I think that’s why I chose to speak to you. No one else seemed to give a shit.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that, too.”

Curtis went on. “Wyatt and I grew up together. Our families are part of the same social circles. Country club memberships, prestigious careers, back-scratching business deals, the same vacations, the same lavish weddings, the same family expectations.” He swallowed a gulp of water. “Our status doesn’t allow for gay people. I’m sure you can imagine. So when both of us figured out as teenagers that we batted for the wrong team, well, you can imagine the panic. For about a year, we avoided even each other because we thought the other was straight, and if the other one knew our terrible secret, our friendship would be over.

“But then things happened, and we realized that not only were we of the same persuasion, but we felt similarly about each other. After that, we were inseparable. Our families thought we were the greatest of friends, and they didn’t intervene.

“We managed to get accepted to the same university, so it wasn’t a stretch to become roommates. Those were the best four years of my life. We were as much a couple as we could be.”

Curtis’s eyes glazed over as he returned to a past time and place, one he clearly cherished.

“But we knew it wouldn’t last. He had to return home to work at White Oak and I’d been on track for law school my whole life. Our lives weren’t ours to plan in any way, let alone that way. By the time I graduated and took the bar exam, he was already engaged to Lydia Warner.

“Hanover Powell, Wyatt’s grandfather, had basically brokered their marriage as a deal between two film family dynasties. Her family agreed because they needed filming and studio locations that didn’t come with Hollywood price tags, and the Powells weren’t about to turn down associating with the Warner name.

“As for Lydia, she knew all about Wyatt’s disposition. She didn’t really care. She was as discontent with the arranged marriage as he was. But being on the same page gave them some freedom. Publicly, they were a happily married couple, and privately, they didn’t bother pretending. They were free to be with people they really loved as long as they were discreet.

“Once Hanover died, they planned to amicably divorce, and Wyatt and I could finally be together honestly. The inheritance lorded over everyone’s heads could be distributed, any children would be taken care of for several lifetimes, and everyone would be happy. Well, except my family, but I’d deal with them. By then, I would be ready.

“That’s what was supposed to happen.” He paused to sip his water. The waiter took that as a cue to set down their shrimp salads, which they both ignored.

“I take it that’s not at all what happened, since you indicated in your interview with Atlanta PD that Wyatt would stay at your place when he and Lydia argued.”

“You’re correct. Lydia didn’t completely hold up her end of the deal. To be fair, they were good for a long time, even had the requisite two children to shut down the people clamoring for heirs.” He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I can’t even be mad about that. I love those little noisemakers like they’re my own kids.” He shook his head, a faint smile trying to break free. “Lydia went and fell in love. That’s what went wrong. It was all well and good for Wyatt to be in love and have to wait until the divorce could go through after everyone got their rightful inheritance. But once Lydia got her head well and truly turned, it wasn’t good enough anymore. She wanted real freedom. What did she care for Powell family money when she already had Warner money? Hadn’t she sacrificed enough for Wyatt? Hadn’t she given enough to his family? He'd already gotten her prime years. She’d incubated his children, who, as she saw it, cemented the Warner relationship with White Oak. She’d pretended to be Wyatt’s wife long enough, and she deserved her own happiness now. Right now. No more waiting.

“I don’t entirely blame her for getting tired of it. But she got cruel, and for that, I do blame her. It made me sick, the mean things she’d say to get her way. I always liked her, especially because she really did a lot for Wyatt to keep his secrets. But when he didn’t acquiesce on this, her vicious streak ran deep. It was only a couple more years. By the time she wanted out, Hanover Powell was sick. He was an old man with a terminal illness, and even with his vast resources, he couldn’t outrun death. Wyatt begged her for a little more time. Just long enough to make sure he and the children could secure the future he was always promised.

“Hell, he even told her he’d have set her free if the children weren’t in the picture. But he wouldn’t see his kids suffer because of his grandfather’s bigotry. He’d heard it many times his whole life—if he didn’t toe the line, his inheritance would be ripped away, and his parents weren’t strong enough to stop it.

“Hanover Powell would do it, too. Wyatt had seen enough of the old man’s temper and iron-fisted control, both growing up and in the office, to know how quickly he slammed doors on people. It didn’t matter if you’d worked for him for decades, had Powell blood in your veins, or had given him a lifetime’s worth of loyalty. If you defied him, you were dead to him, and you were cut off.

“Wyatt didn’t want the kids to pay for his grandfather’s old-fashioned views. All he wanted was to wait until the cancer took the old man, and then they’d all be free. He didn’t even care if his parents disowned him. By then, it wouldn’t matter. He’d have his share, which he was going to split with Lydia; his kids would have their trusts; and Lydia would be free to marry her boyfriend in peace.”

“And you and Wyatt could be together.”

“And Wyatt and I could be together.” The echo was watery, but Curtis held his emotions in check, not spilling tears. His chin quivered, but that was it. “He stayed with me more and more when they fought. It got to be so regular, it felt like we were in the home stretch already. Except for one thing.”

Curtis went quiet for so long, Tracey wasn’t sure if he’d be able to continue. “Do you need a break?”

“No.” A deep breath, closed eyes, and Curtis centered himself, then continued. “After Wyatt died, I swore I’d be strong opening this can of worms. I’d be joyous letting out the truth, but it’s harder than I thought. The old man is dead and I wanted to dance on his grave and piss on his headstone. Decorum kept me from doing so, at least in daylight where anyone could see.”

In the sun-dappled light through the overhead canopy, tears finally shone in Donnelly’s eyes, and when he smiled, twin tracks skirted down his cheeks. He wiped them away and sniffed, but his smile didn’t fade.

“It’s such a relief, the old man being gone. I always knew it would be, but I also expected Wyatt to be beside me when it happened. I’m so… fucking… angry he’s not. Do you know that, Agent Smith? I am so unbelievably filled with rage that Wyatt’s death preceded his grandfather’s. We didn’t get our fairytale ending. Those kids’ stories all have it right. Those castles may look beautiful, but they’re prisons. Every last one of them.” He sniffed again and used the corner of his cloth napkin to wipe his nose. Then he took a deep breath and composed himself. “Sorry. Where was I?”

“You were in the home stretch, except for one thing.”

“Right. Wyatt was at my house more often than not. He was drinking more because of Lydia’s cruelty, and he was barely hanging on. He felt like he deserved her disgusting insults because he wouldn’t give in. A lot of it came out through internalized homophobia. When we were… you know.”

“Intimate?”

“Yes. Wyatt wanted me to berate him. All our lives, we heard how against nature our kind were, how disgusting and depraved it was for two men to love each other. He thought he deserved to be denigrated. I always argued with him that if he did, so did I. He’d protest. ‘No, Curtis,’ he’d say. ‘You’re the best man I know. The best person I know.’ And I’d ask him, ‘If I don’t deserve those horrible things, why do you?’ He never could answer. But he’d still ask for that kind of talk, and I couldn’t give him that one thing.

“So we had an agreement. On the rare occasion when he needed only that kind of sex, and I refused, he could get it from some anonymous person on an app. I loved him so much that, even though it broke my heart, if that’s what he needed, he had my permission. For a while after, he’d be fine. He’d stop drinking. Sometimes he’d even stand up to Lydia, tell her he was doing this for their kids, and she could wait. It was just a few more months. We could all see it. Hanover was fading.

“But every so often, when I had a poker night with my law school buddies, he’d use the key to my place for a hookup—that was one of my demands. He’d always come to my place and be safe about it. He even had a safeword and he was to always, always stay sober—and do what he had to do.”

“Did you have other conditions?” Tracey tried not to get his hopes up too much, but this was too important not to ask.

“I did.” Curtis began to tick points on his fingers. “Always at my place. Always sober. He used a safeword if it got too much. He would text me when he got there and when the hookup left. And he would stay until I got home. Then the next day was always mine to treat him how he truly deserved to be treated. He had to let me pamper him. Only this time, when I found him….” Now, the emotion was too big a swell, and Curtis couldn’t contain it. He jammed his fist in front of his mouth and dropped his chin, holding his breath to contain the threatening cascade.

Tracey reached across the table and stopped the recording. “The bathroom is up the steps and to the right. Take your time.”

Curtis fled.

Tracey sat, half-heartedly picking at his salad. The waiter had come by and asked if everything was okay, clearly concerned.

“A very necessary, but very tough conversation. Can we get our food boxed up to-go please? And the check?”

“Certainly.”

Tracey checked his phone, surprised they’d only been seated about forty-five minutes. When the waiter returned, he promised him a fat tip and extra for keeping the table longer than usual. The waiter waved him off, though he did look relieved.

When Curtis returned about ten minutes later, his face was red and his hair stood in damp spikes, as if he’d splashed water on his face and rubbed his hands over his whole head. He inhaled and exhaled slow, through pursed lips, and took a big drink of water in which all the ice had melted, the condensation dripping. He noticed the boxes with their food off to the side.

“Are they waiting for us to leave?”

“I’ve taken care of it.” Tracey turned the recorder on again. “Please continue.”

“Okay.” Another quick drink. “When I found Wyatt, I don’t know what went wrong, other than his last hookup was responsible. Before I thought it through, I’d called 9-1-1, but then I realized I couldn’t explain what the police would find or the obvious signs I knew would surface during the autopsy. I’m not a criminal lawyer, but I remember enough from my criminal law classes that I had to tread very carefully. Calling right away wasn’t a mistake because I wouldn’t appear guilty, but then I needed a quick story.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, I assume you’ve already seen all the official interviews I’ve given the Atlanta police.”

Tracey nodded.

“I couldn’t say a word about the reality of Wyatt’s bargain with Lydia, with me, with his hookups, or any of my evidence. I couldn’t show any of that without jeopardizing the whole reason he stayed with his wife all those years—the inheritance for his kids. He was gone but Hanover was still alive, and he was a vindictive son-of-a-bitch. I could absolutely see him disowning Wyatt, even in death, because of an unsavory exit. I couldn’t risk it.

“So I bided my time and promised myself that as soon as the old bastard was cold and rotting, I’d run to the first detective I could find and spill everything. You were the first person with a badge who didn’t accuse me of killing the man I loved with every cell in my body, so instead of going to the cops in Atlanta, I got on a plane.”

Tracey’s attention had snagged on one word. “Evidence?”

Curtis brought out his phone. “Another one of my conditions for Wyatt hooking up with these people was that he tell me before any of the meetups who he was meeting. I took photos of the messages. Smoldr alerts the other person if a screenshot has been taken, so I took a photo or recording of his screen with the messages open. Good thing, too, because this motherfucker insisted on disappearing messages. I knew the cops would find nothing.”

He called up a photo and set his phone between them on the table. Tracey leaned forward to see, his heart beating so hard, he though it could be seen at his temples.

On the phone, in black and white, was a photo of a phone screen with messages between someone named FlyinHi to PowellBtm arranging a hookup. There were images. Curtis flicked his finger across the screen to show he’d captured the entirety of the conversation. The shots moved too fast to see if there were any face pics, but they could scrutinize the images back at Quantico.

Giddy bubbles rose in Tracey’s throat, and he had to suppress a spontaneous laugh with a clearing of his throat. “I hate to ask this, but can I take your phone?”

“I figured as much. I’ve already got a new phone with a different number. As soon as it comes out what I’ve done, I’m pretty sure I’ve blown up my life anyway. You can keep this one and all the drama it’s about to go through.” He tried to smile but it was brittle as he pushed the phone toward Tracey. “Anyway, I understand chain of custody.”

Tracey was sympathetic as he put the phone into his pocket. There were evidence bags in the car he’d fill out as soon as he could. “We’ve already tested Wyatt’s phone and these images and messages weren’t on his Smoldr app. But we have confirmed his username, so it would appear these came from his messages with the man he met with the night he was killed.”

Curtis let out a huge rush of air. “You believe me.”

Tracey snapped his head up. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“To be honest, this has been a nightmare. I’ve imagined all kinds of scenarios, from being arrested, to being dismissed, to the photos having disappeared from my phone somehow. You name it, I imagined a worst case scenario.” His eyes swam again. “I didn’t let myself actually believe it would go how I wanted.”

This time, when Tracey reached across the table, it was to set a reassuring hand on Curtis’s forearm. “Thank you for trusting us with such important information, not only about what happened but also about who Wyatt was.” He hesitated. “I take it with Hanover Powell’s funeral being over and you being here now that the inheritance question is settled?”

Curtis nodded. “The reading of the will took place right after the graveside service on Sunday. For families with his resources, people do as much heavy lifting as possible before big life changes happen. While probate isn’t complete and won’t be for months, the trusts for the family are in place and the trustees have been named. A judge signed off on that portion of the estate on Wednesday. Wyatt’s children are set for life. I did what I had to and got on a plane yesterday afternoon. Took a bit to gather my courage and call you this morning.”

Tracey patted his arm and sat back. “It’s very early to tell, but Curtis, this information is extremely helpful. I’m not going to promise you it will lead to something, but I will promise to keep you informed.

“Okay. Thank you.”

After Curtis left, Tracey joined the others, a grin stretching from ear to ear.

“I think we hit the jackpot.”

They hurried back to the office and entered Curtis Donnelly’s phone into evidence, immediately putting in a federal warrant for Smoldr to release the records for username FlyinHi. It felt anticlimactic, as submitting paperwork always did, but Tracey had hope the app company wouldn’t jerk them around or take their sweet time.

A terrible thought occurred as he and Jon rode home that evening.

“What if someone else dies while we’re waiting for Smoldr?”

Jon sighed. “There’s nothing we can do about that. Some of these tech companies answer within in a few days, and some take weeks. You did great with Donnelly today, by the way. That was a tough conversation.”

The team had listened to the recording, and Jon, with Tracey peering over his shoulder, searched the FlyinHi username on Smoldr when the others went back to their desks from the conference room. He was still an active user.

Tracey’s blood ran cold.

Now, as they drove to his house in rush hour traffic, he didn’t want to be alone. It was Friday and they’d gotten through a week without another body dropping, but he was afraid they’d get a call from another jurisdiction. Would FlyinHi have moved to his next hit this fast? Would they not hear from him for a few weeks now, giving them time to wait for the Smoldr results?

“Stay for dinner?” He asked as Jon turned into the neighborhood.

Instead of pulling into the driveway, Jon parked his car in the visitor’s spot and shut off the engine. “I’d love to.”

“And if you happen to have an overnight bag in your trunk, you can bring that in, too.” Tracey grinned. “Maybe I can get your opinion on some of the décor choices I’ve made now that I’m all unpacked.”

Jon laughed and popped the trunk. “I’m full of opinions.”

T hey passed a relatively domestic weekend putting the finishing touches on Tracey’s townhouse in preparation for his parents to visit at the end of the coming week. For a postage stamp-sized front yard, there were a lot of leaves that needed dealing with. The backyard was worse.

Tracey used the rake to trap another pile and lift it into the yard waste bag Jon held open. “You know, I probably should call my parents to confirm they’re still coming.”

“Might not be a bad idea.” Jon’s cold-reddened nose and cheeks kept Tracey moving at a fair clip to finish as fast as he could, even though his leg was already aching. “You could also text your dad to ask, if you’re not up for a phone call yet.”

“What sense does that make if I’m supposed to see them face-to-face?” Bend, trap, straighten, dump, push down, repeat. Tracey’s back was starting to hurt as much as his calf.

“It’s a lot harder to be angry with someone in person. Maybe when she sees you, something will click.”

“Or maybe it’ll be horribly awkward. I should just call and tell them not to bother until she figures her shit out.” Tracey considered that seriously. “I don’t want to hurt my dad though, and that would upset him.”

“It’s not like he wouldn’t understand why you’re doing it.”

“Oh, he would.” Bend, trap, dump, push. Ugh. “I miss them. Both of them. But she’s struggling. Even if she’s not saying that, it’s just like Gray said—she’s scared. I need to see her. She can’t keep shutting me out if I’m right in front of her.” He had told Jon about Gray’s theory, hoping for another opinion on the situation.

Jon had pleaded ignorance since he hadn’t met Caroline.

“Then yeah, confirm the visit.”

“Do you think I should try to clear the air before they come?”

“It could make the visit nicer.” Jon was magnanimous, as usual.

The neutrality frustrated Tracey. “Arrgh! You’re impossible.”

Jon laughed and let go of the bag, grabbing him by his coat lapels and hauling him close enough to kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes danced with affection. “I’m not psychic. They’re your family and you know them best. However this goes, I’m in your corner. Always.”

Tracey’s chest warmed and he hooked his fingers together at the small of Jon’s back. “Thank you. I know I’m being insufferable.”

“Not insufferable. Just uncertain, and that’s obviously normal.”

“Hello!”

They both turned to a woman walking toward them with a shock of curly, flame red hair, marginally tamed by a headband over her ears.

Her smile was wide, but even so, they inched apart as they gave her their attention.

“Hello.” Tracey’s smile was polite.

“I’m Christine. I live in that one.” She pointed to a townhouse two up and across the street, with a Mini Cooper in the short driveway. “I saw you two doing this by hand and thought I’d come offer you a leaf vacuum. Cuts the whole chore in half.”

“Oh. Actually, that would be great.” Tracey hadn’t wanted to say anything, but his calf was going to put him off the yard work before it was finished.

Jon took off his gloves and held out his hand. “I’m Jon. Nice to meet you, Christine.”

Tracey hastily followed suit. “I’m Tracey. Grateful new neighbor.”

Her smile, somehow, got wider and brighter. “It’s really nice to meet you. I meant to come over much sooner, when you first got here, but you’re kinda difficult to catch at home. Let me just go get Vince—uh, the leaf thing.”

Tracey’s brows furrowed as she walked off, clearly laughing at herself. He and Jon exchanged looks, but Jon shrugged, took the rake, and went to the next grassy spot to pile up another leaf hill.

She was back in short order with a yard implement that resembled a leaf blower but it had a mesh bag hanging from the back. “Sorry, you probably think I’m a little nuts. As a joke, I name all my electronics. My robot vacuum is Sally, and I adore her. But this one is named after my ex-husband, Vince, because it sucks. I promise, I’m not a weirdo who walks the neighborhood, talking to appliances and cackling at her own jokes on a regular basis.”

Tracey couldn’t help laughing aloud. “Okay. But even if you were, Vince the leaf sucker is funny.”

Jon, too, was smiling as he took the apparatus from her and went to plug the long extension cord into the open garage. She showed him the switches when he reemerged, and before long, he was polluting the neighborhood with noise like a seasoned weekend yard warrior while Tracey and Christine stood off to the side.

“Thank you. This is really nice of you.”

“You’re welcome. I saw you doing it the hard way and I think the HOA would send out fines if you didn’t put in your quota of obnoxiousness.”

He laughed again. “I’m pretty sure they were about to fine me for the amount of leaves piled up.”

Jon finished sucking up his new mound of leaves pretty fast and grinned at them, obviously having fun. The noise stopped as he shut off the machine to dump newly mulched leaves into the yard waste bag.

“That’s the only trouble. It fills up fast, so you have to empty it a lot.” She seemed pleased in spite of the drawback.

“It’s kinda fun!” Jon went back to vacuuming.

“So where are you from?” She didn’t seem in a hurry to get back to her house.

“Illinois. Moved here for work.”

She eyed him up and down. “Politics?”

He glanced at her, not fooled for a minute by her nonchalant posture. “Law enforcement.” He watched that land and several conclusions came to her at once. “So how much gossip has been circulating the neighborhood about me?”

Her face turned pink enough to clash with her hair, and she had the sense to look embarrassed. “Oh, uh. Well, most of us had you pegged for the Hill, given your suits, but you were missing the telltale lanyard. Then you disappeared, and someone said Pentagon. After you came back on crutches, it felt gross to speculate, at least to me. Then you completely disappeared for weeks, and I stopped trying to figure it out. I’m just glad to see you back, on your feet and feeling well enough to take on yard work. I will warn you, this is a pretty quiet neighborhood, so people feel it’s okay to, um, I guess keep an eye out for each other? If by that I mean spread gossip like butter on toast. They’re good people, but maybe a little too nosy.” She stopped rambling, seemingly hesitant to say more.

Tracey threw her a bone. “Everyone sounds pretty observant. I’m FBI, and yes, I’m happy to be back on my feet enough for yard work.” He skipped the in-between, and he wouldn’t go into being in the BAU, nor would he give details about his injury. “My job has me traveling from time to time, which means I’ll be gone for a few days to a few weeks sometimes. It’s good to know the neighbors look out for each other. Could be reassuring to have someone watching my house when I’m out for work.” There. That was diplomatic enough.

She nodded vigorously. “I’d be happy to help if you’d like. Although you just met me, so that might be premature to offer.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You just saved me hours and probably a lot of leg pain later.”

“I’m glad. I mean, I know you had help, but this leaf sucker—”

“Vince.”

She laughed. “Vince is really helpful.” She paused. “The real Vince could take a lesson.” Shaking her head, she waved her hand as if she were brushing off her comment. “Most people do a welcome-to-the-neighborhood batch of cookies or pie, but I prefer power tools.”

He barked a laugh, unable to help himself. Jon continued sucking and mulching in blissful ignorance.

Christine turned absolutely tomato-red. “Earth, please swallow me up and spit me out in Antarctica, thank you.”

“No, please, don’t be embarrassed. This has been the best ice breaker conversation I’ve ever had.” He stuck his hand out for her to shake again. “Hi, I’m Tracey Smith, and I’m incredibly awkward meeting new people, so I feel like I have found a kindred spirit. Please don’t feel bad.”

She shook his hand again, laughing and relaxing visibly. “Glad I could put you at ease, Tracey Smith, kindred spirit.”

“Are you from here?”

“Oh no, I moved from Upstate New York, but this is home now. My son Alex’s whole life is here, and even though I moved for Vince back in the early days, I like it. The neighborhood is very supportive and Alex’s schools have been great.”

Tracey nodded. “It’s good to know I picked a great area to buy property.”

“Listen, it might be forward, but I’d like to offer anyway. I’m hosting Thanksgiving, and you and Jon are welcome to come. I know how it is coming to a new place not knowing anyone.”

“Oh, thank you.” He was genuinely taken aback by her open kindness. “I think my parents are coming, provided they’ve managed travel arrangements, but if something falls through, I’ll keep that in mind. That’s generous of you.”

“I don’t know about that. But let me know. I’d love to have the two of you, and I know Alex would be excited to meet our FBI neighbor.”

“Well, he doesn’t need a big holiday as an excuse to come say hi.”

Just then, Jon finished up the last bit of the front yard. “This thing is so fast!” He came to stand beside them. “The backyard should take no time at all.”

“Christine just invited us over for Thanksgiving.”

“I host every year, and like I was telling Tracey, I know how hard it is when you’re new to an area.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’m sure Tracey told you his family is expected, but if there’s a way, we might be able to stop by.” Jon shot him a glance, checking in.

“That’s exactly what I said. But also, Jon’s lived in D.C. for years, so it may be that we have a few rounds to make.”

Flustered, her hand flew to her chest. “Oh. I’m sorry. I assumed… clearly too much.”

Jon laughed. “It’s okay. We don’t live together. I’ve been in Fairfax Station for years.”

“That’s a lovely area.” Her eyes glittered with interest. “How did the two of you meet?”

Tracey wasn’t sure he wanted it all over the neighborhood that he was dating his boss, nor did he really want speculation about the sort of person he was to be caught up in a power imbalance. Before Jon could answer, he blurted, “It’s a funny story, and I’ll tell you sometime, but I hope you don’t mind if I raincheck that conversation under the guise of a coffee invitation? We really do need to tackle the backyard.” Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he gave her his best apologetic look.

“Oh, of course! Don’t let me keep you.”

“I’ll bring Vince back to you as soon as we’re done.”

“Not the real one.” She laughed weakly. “It was nice to meet you both.” With a quick wave, she turned and hurried off in the direction of her house.

“Is she okay?” Jon seemed confused.

“Yeah, just easily flustered, like me.” A small smile tugged at Tracey’s lips. “But I really do want the backyard cleaned up, and I didn’t want to say, but I don’t know how long my leg is going to hold up. And now we need to come up with a story to tell my apparently nosy neighborhood about how we met that isn’t ‘at work.’ It seems I moved into a gossipy subdivision, and while everyone’s nice, they’re also chatty about each other. I don’t want them getting all up in our business about me sleeping with the boss.”

Jon hefted the last yard bag into the garage, out of the way until trash day. He followed Tracey through to the backyard. Tracey brought the leaf sucker with him, keeping the cord untangled.

“I thought you didn’t like secrets, Tracey. Aren’t we supposed to be out everywhere but at work?”

“There’s being out, and there’s telling everyone our business. I don’t want someone’s cousin’s daughter’s teacher’s hair stylist’s aunt to be the switchboard operator at Quantico who learns about us the roundabout way. So, let’s come up with a way we met that doesn’t involve you interviewing me over a crime scene.”

“Mutual friends?”

“Oh. That seems so easy.”

“I’ll tell Brian he’s been voluntold.” Jon nodded officiously, then hit the switch on the leaf sucker. Vince roared to life and made quick work of the backyard leaf piles.

L ate Sunday evening, there was no more time to put it off.

Tracey had sent Jon back to his house with loose limbs, a fucked-out grin, and a giant thanks for all his help for getting the place in shape. The house was as ready physically as it could be, but now he needed to know if his parents were even coming.

He lay on the couch, propping a throw pillow under his leg—which still ached despite the salt bath he and Jon had taken together after yesterday’s labor-intensive work. Scrolling to the favorites on his phone, he hesitated over his parents’ number, then finally pressed it and put it on speaker. Then he dropped the phone on his chest and stared at the ceiling.

“Tracey! It’s good to hear from you, son.” Edward’s greeting was welcome even in its fake cheer.

“Hey, Dad. How are you doing?”

“Good, good. How are you holding up? How’s the leg?”

“A bit sore. I’ve been getting my house ready for you guys. That’s actually why I’m calling. To find out if we’re still on for Thanksgiving.” He closed his eyes, waiting for the disappointment.

“You bet. Is there anything we can bring? Mind you, we’re flying, so we have limited luggage space. No asking for your hockey trophies.” His dad never failed amusement at his own jokes.

“Har dee har har, Dad.” The relief was palpable and it almost choked him up. But now he had a decision.

Talk to his mother in person, or have it out with her now and hope they could clear the air before they arrived so the visit itself would be smooth sailing.

As the silence stretched between him and his dad, Tracey tried to say something. Ask to speak to his mother.

Instead, all he could say was, “No, you don’t need to bring anything. I’m just really glad you’re coming. All I need is for you to get here safely.”

“Will do, kiddo.” Like he always did, Edward Smith showed Tracey his support. “We miss you and we’re really looking forward to this trip.”

Tracey had never known his dad to lie to him, so he had to believe his mother felt the same way.

“I miss you, too. See you in a few days. I love you.”

“We love you, too.”