Chapter 16

Chapter

Sixteen

M atthew Cavanaugh owned a successful salon and spa, and he hadn’t shown up for work, according to his office manager. Saturdays were their biggest day of the week, so she was already concerned when Gimble spoke with her. Her worry ratcheted up drastically when she learned he wasn’t home sick.

“Could he and Richard have taken a spontaneous trip?” Gimble kept his questions carefully neutral.

“It’s possible. Matthew’s clients are usually booked months in advance, so he and Rick typically plan better for time off. You don’t think something’s happened to them, do you?”

“We’re doing everything we can to find them. If you hear from either of them, please contact the FBI’s Denver field office. They’ll patch you through to me.” Gimble disconnected. “They’re in the wind.”

They issued a “Missing: Endangered” bulletin for Matthew Cavanaugh to all law enforcement and media in Colorado. If the couple were traveling by car, there was a better chance they’d be spotted.

News channels ran Matthew Cavanaugh’s smiling face and a picture of the couple’s registered vehicle on the ten o’clock news with the brief story of his disappearance since his failure to report for work. Details were purposefully vague. If the couple stopped for gas between Denver and Durango, someone could see them and call the tip line.

Sutherland came through with a small charter plane, and they were back in the air by late evening, this time with Gimble and another Denver field agent, Special Agent Dorn.

Tracey’s nerves were jumpy. Without the S.W.A.T. team, they were the front line, and this time, there were fewer agents going into an even lesser known situation.

Was Matthew Cavanaugh okay? Would he be an antagonist or a hostage? Would he be alive?

Were they armed?

Jon steadied Tracey’s bouncing knee in the confined space. “Relax. It’s fine.”

Tracey breathed deeply, using a meditation technique. Focusing on the seat in front of him, he noted the color, the shape, and texture. He let himself imagine its molecules under a microscope, even though he’d have no way of knowing that. Deconstructing an object in this way settled him, though he couldn’t explain why. It anchored him.

His heart rate slowed and the urge to fidget subsided. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Nerves are normal, but it’ll be okay. Everyone on this plane has experience with high-risk arrests. I’m putting you at the very back of the breach.” Tracey opened his mouth to protest, but Jon held up a hand. “It’s not a commentary on your capabilities, and it’s also not negotiable. You’re not medically cleared for full operational capacity. I’m not risking it. You’re at the back.”

Tracey slumped. “Fine.” A small part of him was relieved, but he hated feeling that way, too. He wanted to pull his weight, not be a burden. The last case weighed heavily.

Landing in such a small plane was much bumpier than at Denver International, but disembarking on the tarmac at Durango La-Plata Regional had its perks. They were met by two agents from the Durango resident agency, taking their ragtag group to eight people.

Tracey wished for the well-oiled machine of Denver Metro S.W.A.T.

We’re the FBI, goddammit. We can arrest someone without a massive production.

He told himself that, anyway. Injured leg or not, he was a trained FBI agent with years of field experience. Maybe he hadn’t directly made a lot of arrests, but despite his nickname, he wasn’t really a rookie. Collaring perps was damned satisfying.

Perspective. Think about removing a terrible human from the public rather than entering the lion’s den. Fulfill his reasons for joining the FBI. Save lives and get dangerous people off the streets.

He glanced at Sarena as she climbed into the other SUV with Gimble. She appeared determined and fierce. He wanted nothing more than to follow her example.

I can do this.

A ringing on speakerphone caught his attention. Jon’s screen lit the darkness inside the SUV as his call connected with Perry’s phone in the other vehicle. “Put me on speaker, please.” Perry obliged, and Jon laid out the plan. “There’ll be no staging, so all we have is right now. Based on Tracey’s property research, there are nearby cabins. We need to secure the suspect quickly before he can slip free and endanger anyone. Even though we’re late in the year, Purgatory Ski Resort is under an hour away. We can assume nearby cabins have holiday renters. This isn’t the off-season.

“We’re about twenty minutes out. The Cavanaugh property is right on the Florida River, so at our final turn onto River Road, we park up just before the cabin’s driveway, lights off.” Jon continued laying out a plan, with the rest of the group offering suggestions to create a breach strategy very similar to that the S.W.A.T. team had used—a brute force approach that left no room for fleeing. Get in, make the arrest, and minimize casualties. Give Cavanaugh no chance to escape, harm his husband, or take nearby travelers as hostages.

As they began to wrap up, Jon almost hesitated, making eye contact with Tracey. “One more thing. This is as real as it gets. If we need lethal force to protect a human life, take the shot. Don’t hesitate. Richard Peter Cavanaugh is suspected of murdering five men. There may be more victims. He won’t hesitate to take life. We don’t know if he’s armed. Given the nature of his husband’s disappearance, we are reasonably sure this is a life and death situation. I want him alive, but not at the expense of innocent lives.”

There was a pause on the line. Then Perry came in clutch with the tension breaking joke, singing Bon Jovi’s hit 80s song ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive.’

Tracey watched as incredulity and amusement passed over the Durango agent’s face as he glanced at Agent Dorn in the front passenger seat, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh during such a tense situation. He couldn’t see Dorn’s face. Jon merely rolled his eyes.

Tracey chuckled, shaking his head. “You get used to him.” Honestly, he was grateful for Perry. Everything they’d worked for the last few weeks hinged on the next thirty minutes. Having a moment of levity ratcheted down the pressure, however slightly.

“Is everyone set?” Jon was still focused, but less intense.

One by one, they sounded off.

They had brought the Denver field office’s communication equipment, and except for the drivers, everyone did a sound check. When they pulled onto the River Road and parked, lights off, just before the cabin’s marked drive, the Durango agents got their ear pieces in place.

As before, everyone was quiet emerging from the vehicles, pulling guns from holsters and checking safeties.

The forest was dense, the recent snowfall hanging more in the evergreen branches than reaching the forest floor. Bare patches of brown pine needles and protruding rock shared equal space with snow. The blanket above created a wind-muffling canopy that gave forest sounds almost a tunnel effect. The nearby river was a solid rush. They took care where they placed their feet.

The cold was a punch even through the Kevlar and tactical pants. Moving quickly, Tracey swept his flashlight over the ground ahead of him to avoid stepping on a dry branch or twig. An ill-timed snap could alert the suspect of their approach.

The team spread out through the trees to keep from attracting anyone’s attention through one of the cabin’s many windows. They descended quickly on the building, which looked warm and inviting from the outside. Tracey tried to glimpse movement inside. The gravel drive swooped toward the traditional log-style structure, circling in front of the garage over which hung a small balcony. The break in the trees allowed moonlight to highlight the edges of everything.

Through their earpieces, Sarena’s low voice came through. “Tire tracks leading to the garage. Someone’s definitely here.”

Their boots on the gravel were only somewhat muffled by patches of snow, and they did their best to walk lightly. Three trees in front mostly blocked the windows. A deep overhanging roof plunged the front porch into dark shadow. Except for a large front window through which a warm glow emanated, there was little to discern the home’s features. The front door had a small square window in the top center, but details were lost in inky blackness.

Wide stone steps at the corner of the porch led to both the front door and a side deck that wrapped around the cabin. Beyond the massive stone chimney on the home’s side sat double glass doors, spilling light from the cabin’s main room across the decking. A shadow moved past the square of light on the deck boards.

Gimble signaled to split into two groups, four agents to the front door, four to the side door. Jon signed his approval, and indicated for Perry and Sarena to go with Gimble and one of the Durango agents to the front. Dorn and the other Durango agent took their place in front of Jon and Tracey and moved toward the side door.

They stayed to the shadow just beyond the door, and the Durango man, whose name Tracey really should have remembered, set his hand on Dorn’s shoulder, as he was the point man. Jon did the same with the Durango Agent’s shoulder. Tracey followed suit, hand on Jon’s shoulder, completing the conga line.

Jon, with his gun pointed to the floorboards, waited for the pre-arranged signal from Gimble.

Having lost line of sight, Gimble gave a quiet, “Go,” through their ear pieces.

They burst through the glass doors just as the other group stormed the front door.

A vaulted ceiling gave the cabin’s main living space a vast feeling, and the fire crackling away in the fireplace made it cozy, but that was the only homey thing about the scene before them.

To Tracey’s left, two couches and a couple of leather chairs delineated the living room in front of the massive hearth from the dining area and the kitchen at the back of the main floor. The other team’s Durango agent scrambled up the staircase to the left of the front door, gun pointed at the ceiling to clear the loft and second floor.

On the couch under the front windows, Matthew Cavanaugh lay on his back, hands folded over his stomach like a body displayed a coffin.

The difference was his head resting on Richard Cavanaugh’s lap.

As one, seven guns rose and pointed, homing in on their target.

In response, Richard lifted the hand he’d rested across Matthew’s chest and pointed a revolver to his husband’s head.

The agent upstairs shouted, “Clear!” and stampeded back downstairs to join them.

Eight agents fanned out, seeking better angles to surround the couple.

“Richard Peter Cavanaugh, you’re under arrest. Drop your weapon and slide it across the floor to me.” Gimble barked the order.

Cavanaugh ignored him.

He stared lovingly at his husband, who looked to be sleeping. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Drop your weapon!” Gimble’s shout was out of balance with the cabin’s cozy warmth. It jangled Tracey’s nerves. He didn’t take his eyes off the tableau. “I won’t ask again! Surrender your weapon!”

Gimble’s shouting was doubled by Dorn’s, the orders growing sharper the longer Cavanaugh disobeyed. The Durango agents were quick to join.

“I didn’t mean to! It wasn’t supposed to go like this! I didn’t mean for this to happen!” Cavanaugh shrieked until the room was a vortex of noise and chaos.

Tracey could feel it; the pressure cooker ready to explode.

It was coming.

“No peace in the world. People killing people. All over the place.”

Finch.

Cavanaugh .

Hot tires screeching.

Finch .

Cavanaugh.

Glass breaking.

Metal shrieking and bending.

Jon jumped in front of seven loaded guns. “Stop!”

“No peace. People killing people.”

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t meanforthistohappen !”

Jon’s arms out, his gun up in surrender, blocking the others’ aim.

Tracey’s stomach swooped.

“Rick! Look at me. Rick.”

The Ice Man’s voice cut through the noise. Spoken, not screamed.

Slushy cold filled Tracey’s gut, ramping up his nausea and nerves. He sidestepped Jon, aiming at Richard Cavanaugh’s forehead. Dead center.

Alive if possible, but not at the expense of innocent lives.

“Rick!”

Cavanaugh focused on Jon, his face shiny with tears. Snot leaked from his nose. His gun hand unwavering. Revolver muzzle pointed at his unconscious— dead? —husband’s temple.

“I’ve seen the conversion camp. What they did to you. I know.”

Rick stared. His mouth agape.

“I’ve seen it. I know. I know, buddy.” Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon bent and set his gun on the floor. “What they did, it was torture. And it will not go unanswered. They’ll pay for what they’ve done to you. To the others.”

Rick’s chin dimple quivered, but his hand remained steady despite the awkward angle of his wrist. He had to have hand cramps from that awful position. “You can’t know.”

Jon nodded. “I do, though. I know about the films. The torture porn. The rapes. The beatings while they made you watch men together so you’d associate love with pain. I know they hurt you to make you hate who you are. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what they did to you.”

Cavanaugh’s face crumpled, then straightened, then crumpled again, and he pulled the gun from Matthew’s temple.

Tracey shifted another inch, his shoulder muscles burning from holding position. His calf screamed from this never-ending semi-crouch. He ignored it.

“They didn’t just hurt me!” Cavanaugh screamed in blind fury, his face red as spittle flew from his lips and spattered Matthew. Ropes of muscle and rage stood out on his neck.

“I know, buddy. I know.”

Tracey couldn’t see Jon’s face, but the pain in his voice was the stuff of nightmares. No wonder Jon had been so upset investigating Enlightened Covenant Ministries. No matter the name of Cavanaugh’s specific camp, they used the same playbook.

“I know they forced you to become the torturer. They made you hurt the younger kids in order to graduate. They turned you into an abuser.”

Richard’s face went blank as he was overcome with memories. Tracey firmed up his grip on his gun, ready to put a bullet into the man if he broke right here and now.

But the pain on his face—real and devastating. This man had been brutalized. He’d likely been just a kid—if Jon’s rendition of camp operations was universal—and had been forced to become tormenter to end his own torment.

But that didn’t mean he had to continue the abuse.

Or escalate to murder.

Over Cavanaugh’s head, Tracey met Perry’s eye. And very deliberately blinked.

Jon stayed stock-still, his words a continuous cadence, his voice reaching through the fog of memory to connect with Richard, to pull him out of his darkness. “But don’t let them win now. Don’t let them keep making you an abuser. Especially not for the man you love. Let us help you. Let us help Matthew.”

Richard’s focus returned from whatever faraway mental place he’d gone. His attention snapped to Jon. “What?”

“You’re better than them. You’re stronger. You can resist. Don’t become like them. You’re not like them, okay? You’re better than this.”

Cavanaugh stared at Jon, like he needed Jon’s words. Needed his promises.

Behind him, Perry slowly, subtly moved closer, silent as he rolled his feet heel-to-toe.

Tracey blanked his face, gun trained on Cavanaugh’s forehead.

“Rise above this, above them. Prove you’re not susceptible anymore. You’re clear of them. You’re free.”

Jon’s hypnotic tone almost had Cavanaugh. Until that last word.

Cavanaugh’s face hardened, his gun hand firming its grip, which had relaxed to the point of almost dropping the weapon. He returned the muzzle to his husband’s temple.

“I’ll never be free. And he can never know what I’ve done.”

Perry sprang.

He grabbed Richard’s gun hand and fought for control.

Jon dove on top of Matthew Cavanaugh.

Richard screamed. Tracey heard bone snap.

A shot rang out.

Shouts bounced through the high rafters.

Tracey barely contained the very real impulse to squeeze his trigger in response to the shot fired.

The fear of hitting one of his people stopped him.

The thump as Jon and Matthew hit the floor hardly registered.

Tracey dropped beside them, rolling Jon to search for blood, for a gunshot wound.

“Jon! Jon!”

“Richard Peter Cavanaugh, you have the right to remain silent.” Perry all but snarled the words. The snick of the handcuffs was symphonic .

Tracey blocked the rest out as he tore at Jon’s vest, shoving his hands under to feel for wetness. Jon’s face contorted in pain, his skin chalk-white. He covered his ear and curled in on himself.

Beside Tracey, Sarena knelt beside Matthew Cavanaugh. “He’s alive! Call an ambulance!” She shoved a throw pillow beneath Matthew’s head and rolled him to his side.

Wresting the Kevlar over Jon’s head at last, Tracey could see his full torso.

No gunshot wound. No blood.

“Anderson!”

He finally looked at Tracey, glassy-eyed with pain.

“What is it? Where are you hurt?”

He shook his head, indicating his ear. Tracey spotted a trickle of blood.

The gun had gone off right beside his head.

“This is Special Agent Owen Gimble from the Denver FBI field office. We have two down, including an FBI Agent, and need an ambulance near the Florida River at….”

S arena knocked on Tracey’s hotel room door just after nine the next morning as he was wrapping up a call to let Curtis Donnelly know they’d made an arrest.

“Matthew Cavanaugh’s awake.” She waited for him, coat on and purse strap over her shoulder. “I’ve already ordered a ride.”

Tracey scrambled into his shoes and grabbed his coat, almost forgetting to grab his keycard from the TV cabinet as he strode past. “Have you heard from Jon?”

She shook her head as they walked to the elevator. “I figured he’d reach out to you, not me.”

The ambulance had arrived at the cabin pretty fast despite the cabin’s rural location, and they’d followed with Jon in one of the SUVs rather than wait for a second transport, reaching Mercy Hospital just after midnight. Matthew Cavanaugh had been taken immediately for treatment for what the paramedics suspected was a GHB overdose.

Richard Cavanaugh had clammed up as soon as he’d been read his rights. It was only through his history of chemsex with Phantom victims that they’d had any idea what to tell the medics.

Jon, too, had been whisked into one of the ER’s curtained bays. Perry joked it was about time he had his head examined, but his worry had been plain.

The agent who’d driven their SUV to the hospital offered to take Perry, as the arresting officer, back to the Durango resident agency to start the mountain of paperwork this entire ordeal had generated. Perry had taken him up on it right away.

When it was clear Jon’s testing would take hours, Sarena asked hospital personnel for a hotel recommendation. She’d had to persuade Tracey to go get some rest, and convinced him with the promise they’d return first thing. They’d managed a ride to the hotel, practically falling on the reservation desk in their exhaustion at around three in the morning.

Perry must have slept at the office. There was always a couch to crash on.

Tracey almost asked why Sarena thought Jon would text him before he remembered she knew about them. “He hasn’t texted, so I’m guessing he’s either still getting evaluated, or he fell asleep. I hope the latter.”

They arrived at Mercy Hospital via a quick rideshare and showed their badges to the information desk receptionist to get the room number for Matthew Cavanaugh. Sarena fired off a quick text to Perry with their whereabouts, and then pulled Tracey to the side.

“Are you up for this? Yesterday was kind of intense. For us both.”

Now, he looked at her. Really looked at her.

“Yeah. Things got heavy for a minute, but I’m okay. Really. What about you?”

She smiled. “Honestly, same. I swear I almost smelled that crash back on I-70 in St. Louis, but it wasn’t the same. And this time, no one got shot.”

“Right. I think Matthew Cavanaugh might not think of it in quite such glowing terms, but for us, it was a victory.”

Sarena tilted her head, her hair cascading loosely over one shoulder. “It’s still a win. He’s alive. The suspect is in custody. But let’s see what he has to say.”

They approached the right door and peered in. Matthew Cavanaugh sat in a hospital bed, the blanket pulled up to mid-torso and wrapped tightly. He was a handsome man, with a strong jaw and chiseled features, though he was pale despite his dark coloring. His brown hair was disheveled—understandable, given the circumstances. The hospital gown seemed to accent his broad shoulders rather than shrink them.

He looked up at Sarena’s rap on the door.

“May we come in? Special Agents Mercado and Smith from the FBI.”

“Sure.” He ran his hands through his hair and cast about like he should play host and offer them seats. There was only one chair. “Uh. Sorry. I don’t know where to get another one.”

“That’s okay.” Tracey perched on the windowsill, far enough away so as not to crowd the witness. He stayed casual, too, to keep Matthew relaxed as well as take weight off his bad leg. Yesterday left him more sore than normal. “This is all right with me if it’s all right with you.”

Matthew shrugged and clasped his hands in his lap. “It’s fine.”

“It’s good to see you awake.” Sarena brought the chair over and sat—not too close, but enough to seem interested in what he had to say. “How are you feeling?”

“Physically? Fuzzy-brained and a lot hungover.” He gestured to the bag on the IV pole. “Fluids for dehydration, but I suppose it could be a lot worse.” Dropping his eyes, he blinked a few times, then peered up at them. “Otherwise, I’m okay. Furious, but okay.”

Tracey nodded. Yeah, this guy was going to be just fine. “Fury is probably one of the healthiest reactions to what you’ve been through.”

Matthew’s jaw bunched and he seemed to breathe through something; whether that be an outburst or nausea, it wasn’t clear. “I feel so stupid.”

“Hey, no.” Sarena put a hand on the bed beside his leg. She didn’t touch him. Not without permission. But she reached out nevertheless. “Richard fooled a lot of people. Many, many people believed the images he wanted everyone to believe. All his supervisors, coworkers, all your friends. It’s not your fault you didn’t see what he wanted no one to see.”

“But I should have known. I was closest to him.” Matthew’s expression was pleading, as though he needed permission to beat himself up as well as absolution. “People’s opinions always mattered so much. Of him, of us as a couple, of how everything we did would come across. As a salon owner, I understand how important image can be, but he took it to extremes. I always chalked it up to his upbringing, to needing to prove he’d made it out.”

“Tell us about that, if it’s not too painful.” She pulled her phone from her coat pocket. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to record this for our case.”

“It’s fine. But tell me something first. Is he in jail?” Matthew lifted his chin, defiance flashing across his fiery brown eyes.

“He is.” Tracey wasn’t sure what tone to adopt, so he kept it neutral. “He’s in the La Plata County Jail for now. We’re transferring him to federal custody soon, because his charges are from other states and the District of Columbia.”

Matthew Cavanaugh blinked. “What are his exact charges? I still don’t quite know what he’s done.”

Tracey gentled his tone. “Not all the charges are finalized because we’re still gathering evidence, but he’s being charged with murder in Illinois, Georgia, and D.C. The Georgia case is a capital murder charge, which could mean the death penalty. Four total counts with the possibility of a fifth if additional evidence can be matched. That’s for the victims we know about.”

Tracey was thinking of the Smoldr data. While the company had tried to bury them in information because of the way Jon handled the lawyer, they might benefit in the long run because they had so many more usernames to check.

It could lead to justice for more families, if there were more victims.

If possible, Matthew Cavanaugh went more pale, his breathing beginning to wheeze. “Murder. Five people…. God, I didn’t know.” He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders beginning to shake while he struggled to control himself. Then he waved a hand in front of his face, gasping.

Sarena didn’t waste any time. She grabbed the bed/TV controller and pressed the nurse’s call button.

The speaker crackled. “Yes, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

“The patient can’t breathe.” Sarena grabbed her recorder and scooted out of the way as two nurses ran into the room. She clicked the recording off.

They took Matthew’s vitals and one disappeared and returned with a doctor, who listened to his lungs and heart rhythm while he continued struggling for breath.

Tracey felt helpless, wondering if they should leave. But it became clear quickly Matthew was hyperventilating, and they got him calmed down and breathing normally again. He was still shuddering, but his gasps had subsided, and they offered to give him some chemical sedation, which he adamantly refused.

As the nurses were leaving, they asked Matthew if he wanted them to remove his visitors, and he shook his head. “No. I need more answers.”

Sarena returned her chair to his side and pulled her handbag onto her lap, rummaging through it until she emerged with a packet of travel tissues. She passed them over with a kind smile. “Here. These are nicer than the hospital ones. They don’t hurt your nose as much.” She held them out.

Matthew accepted the pack with an audible swallow, his eyes red and leaking. “I’m sorry. I just can’t believe this is happening.”

“Take your time.” Tracey felt completely inadequate. What would it be like to find out the person you married was not only a liar, but a complete fiction, and your marriage was a sham? “None of this is your fault, Matthew. This is all on Richard.”

“I figured if Rick was ever hiding anything, it’d be cheating, not… murder.” He shook his head. “So when he came home Saturday and said we had to pack a bag and leave quickly, that someone was coming after him for something terrible he’d done, I figured he’d just fucked the wrong guy behind my back and picked up a stalker.” He stopped to blow his nose. “Don’t get me wrong. I was mad. But I wasn’t surprised. The whole drive down to the cabin, he let me believe this fake narrative that he’d stuck his dick in crazy and crazy was coming after us. Looking back now, it’s incredible how good a fucking liar he really is.”

“He’s had a lot of practice.”

“I suppose. I mean, he had to lie to get out of that camp, saying he was ‘straight now.’” He made air quotes. “He had to make his parents believe their torture treatment worked. Then when he turned eighteen and escaped them, he worked his ass off in college to get his degree without help. When he left his childhood home, he never looked back. I was so impressed by all of it. It took him longer to graduate than most people because he worked part-time jobs to survive and pay for his flight hours. At least until he had enough to qualify as an instructor. Then that became one of his part-time jobs.

“When he finally graduated and got his first position as a pilot, he was flying small craft shuttling cargo. But he was so dedicated and focused, working his way up to bigger engines, getting more experience. Then when he landed a position with Freedom Airlines, we were over the moon. First officer. Becoming a captain. He was honestly impressive. How many lies did he tell on those psych evals? I thought all of it was a giant fuck-you to his parents for what they put him through.

“That’s why he said he wanted to help gay kids in youth shelters, to undo the damage his family did to him.” Matthew turned shiny eyes from the past to the present. “Why would he do those things if he was just going to let the camps poison him into becoming a murderer? A fucking serial killer?” His nose was so clogged, “fucking” came out “fugging.”

Tracey only understood the psychology behind it, but that likely wasn’t what Matthew wanted to hear. Still, he tried to offer some explanation. “When Rick’s parents sent him away, that probably wasn’t their first attempt to subvert his personality to meet their standards. In hyper-religious families, child development is usually affected from an early age. Rick grew up understanding his true thoughts and feelings were secondary to his church’s teachings. Even if he’d been straight, he’d have grown up changed by this upbringing. Many people raised in such environments have traumatic childhoods.”

Matthew’s face contorted. “But they don’t all grow up to kill people.”

Tracey had to give him that. “No, they don’t. You’re completely right. I’m not giving Rick a pass. Just offering an explanation.”

Matthew’s anger subsided. “Well, he had me fooled. He fooled everyone.”

Sarena held her hand out on the bed, palm up—an offer if he wanted to take it. He did, holding on like she was a lifeline. “In situations like this, your husband compartmentalized. You were the pleasant part of his life. His charity work and activism also gave him purpose. These were the aspects he wanted to embrace. The subversive side, the parts he tried to suppress but couldn’t, he likely views as another side, the bad side that’s not his true nature. He never intended for you to meet that side of him. The part he showed you, that’s the man he tried to be because you brought out the best in him. Hang on to that.”

Matthew shook his head. “I’m not hanging on to anything. As soon as I’m released, I’m getting the best divorce lawyer I can find.”

Tracey had to admire this man. He had a lot of courage. “You said Rick told you he did something bad and you needed to pack a bag and leave. Did he tell you where you were going?”

“Just the cabin first so he could think. Then probably somewhere no one could find us. He promised it was temporary, and I was going to call my salon manager as soon as we arrived to let her know I needed a Hail Mary reschedule. After that, he didn’t really say what would happen. I figured we’d get a PI to find out about this stalker person, get a lawyer, and then get a restraining order. Then we could go back home. I had no idea we were running from the FBI.

“When we got to the cabin, Rick started babbling about being sorry for what he’d done. He didn’t want to tell me, he was ashamed, and he didn’t want me to know the details. I calmed him down, but he kept saying he needed me to mean our marriage vows. That scared me, but I thought he just meant the ‘forsaking all others’ part. I said if he cheated, we’d get couples counseling and figure the rest out. Our first priority was getting through the danger. He asked me if I’d do a toast, promising to be true to him like we did at our wedding. He seemed so desperate. I thought, ‘Fine, if it calms his ass down.’ The wine glass was, like, half the bottle, which should have been my first clue. The world went fuzzy and then nothing. The next thing I know, I’m waking up in an ambulance and Rick’s not with me, even though he should have been.

“No one here would tell me anything, but I figured out he’d roofied me. Then one of the overnight nurses took enough pity to tell me Rick got arrested. To explain why I was here by myself. They called my sister after that, and she’s coming as fast as she can. I’ve been a hot mess for a couple of hours now. I didn’t know what the hell was happening until you guys showed up.” He paused, horror crossing his handsome face. “Has this hit the news?”

“We haven’t released a statement yet. There are quite a few pieces we need before going public.” Sarena patted his hand. “I’m not sure how much you want to know, but I can give you some very basic details if you’d like.”

Matthew pursed his lips like he was fighting emotion. “Just tell me if I’m guessing right. He would meet men on his flight runs. Some of his hookups, for whatever reason, he would murder. Does that about sum it up?”

“Without any detail, yes.”

“That’s all I need to know.” He turned away as fresh tears formed and fell. “That absolute bastard. ” Sniffling, he pulled another tissue from the travel packet. “I may call a lawyer from here.”

Tracey approached the foot of the bed, grasping the end and ignoring his sore leg. “For what it’s worth, Mr. Cavanaugh, I think you’re going to be okay.”

“Ugh, I’m changing my name again.” But when he met Tracey’s eyes, he smiled slightly. “Thank you for saying so. Also, thanks aren’t enough for saving my life. Who knows what that psycho would have done if you all hadn’t shown up when you did.”

“All part of the job.”

Matthew nodded. “Do you…. Sorry, but do you mind letting me be alone now? This is a lot to process. I’d like to cry without an audience.”

“Of course.” Sarena ended the recording and stood. She dug a business card from her wallet and left it on the rolling table. “If you need anything, please get in touch. We may reach out, too, with more questions.”

Together, she and Tracey started for the door.

“Agents?”

They turned just as they were about out of the door.

“Can you tell that piece of shit something for me?”

“Of course.” They both said it.

“Tell him I’ll survive him.”