Chapter Nineteen
Sara
I was back at my desk at the field office, hiding in plain sight.
My hair was scraped back in a messy bun that did nothing to conceal the dark, bruised-looking circles under my eyes.
I wore yesterday’s black T-shirt. I hadn’t slept.
Hadn’t eaten. I’d just showered, dressed, and driven here, seeking the familiar armor of my job.
It didn’t fit anymore.
I stared at a case file on my screen, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. Feelings are a liability, I told myself, the mantra a thin, useless shield. You are Agent Linde. Do the work.
But all I could see was his face, twisted in pain and rage. All I could hear was the final, devastating slam of my apartment door.
“You look like you wrestled a bear and lost,” a dry voice said.
I didn’t flinch. I knew her footsteps. I finished reading a sentence I wouldn’t remember and then looked up. “Morning.”
O’Dooley leaned against the partition of my cubicle, arms crossed, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of my dishevelment. “Lunch. My treat.”
“I have too much work,” I lied, gesturing vaguely at the screen.
“No, you don’t,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You have a spectacular mess to deal with, and you’re not going to solve it by pretending to read fraud reports. Noon. Don’t be late.”
I was late. Deliberately. But O’Dooley was still there, sitting in a booth at the back of the diner, a cup of coffee already waiting. I slid onto the vinyl seat without a word.
She let the silence hang for a moment before getting straight to it. “Got a hit on your burner phone pings,” she said, her voice low and professional. “A PI in Hartford. Guy’s on the Gravestone’s unofficial payroll. Sloppy.”
It was a significant break. A tangible lead. I should have felt a jolt, the familiar thrill of the hunt. Instead, I felt a dull, distant thud. I stared into my coffee. “Okay.”
The lack of follow-up, of any professional curiosity at all, was deafening.
O’Dooley let out a slow, frustrated breath and pushed her own plate away.
“Alright, this isn’t working.” She leaned forward, her gaze losing its professional edge and becoming something far more analytical. “Have you tried a good cry?”
My jaw tightened. I finally met her eyes. “I don’t cry.”
A wry, knowing smile touched O’Dooley’s lips. “Linde, you are one bunched-up pair of underwear right now. Just sitting there, beating yourself up because you’re not perfect. Guess what? Nobody is.”
“This isn’t about being perfect,” I snapped, the first real spark of emotion breaking through the numbness. “I lied to a victim. I compromised an investigation. I slept with a mark. I broke him, O’Dooley. I did that.”
She rolled her eyes with theatrical flair.
“Blah, blah, blah. Yes. You’re a horrible monster who deserves to be locked away forever.
I’ve got it.” Her sarcasm was a bucket of ice water.
“You know what I’m not seeing in all this self-pity?
The Agent Linde I actually know and admire.
The one who was all action. All focus and determination. She would have had a plan by now.”
“You can’t plan for something like this,” I said, my voice cracking.
“Bullshit,” she countered, her voice dropping but losing none of its intensity. “You can plan for anything. Instead of sitting there, marinating in your screw-up, why don’t you do something about the parts you can control?”
My shoulders slumped. The fight went out of me, leaving only the hollowed-out truth. “I don’t know where to start. Even if I could put aside what I did to him . . . I have more questions than answers.”
She leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming. This was the opening she’d been waiting for. “What if you had a place to start? What if you could see the cold cases Max was working on right before he died? Would that help?”
The world came rushing back into focus. Max. The beginning of it all. The reason. The agent inside me, dormant and wounded, stirred. My gaze sharpened. “Yes,” I said, the word clear and solid. “Absolutely, yes.”
She held up a hand. “Okay. I’ll get you access. On two conditions. One: We work them together. No more going rogue alone. We’re partners on this, officially or not.”
I nodded, not hesitating. “Done.”
“And two . . .” O’Dooley paused, her expression softening slightly. “You have to do one thing today that has absolutely nothing to do with this case, but that makes you feel like yourself again. Something that makes you feel better.”
I was quiet for a long time, the diner’s ambient noise fading away. I thought of Enimton’s face at the shelter. The raw hope and tenderness as he stroked Sparkles’s head.
“He wanted to save her,” I said, my voice gaining a strength that surprised me.
“The dog. Sparkles. He made a promise to go back for her.” I looked up, my purpose solidifying.
“He might have gone back, but with everything that’s happened .
. . he might not have. And I feel like if he doesn’t, that will be one more thing he’ll never forgive himself for.
I can’t talk to him, he won’t hear from me .
. . but I can do this for him. I can go get her, and bring her to him.
Even if he never forgives me, I want them to have each other. ”
A slow, genuine smile spread across O’Dooley’s face. She leaned back in the booth, the tension finally leaving her shoulders. “Now that,” she said, tapping the table for emphasis, “that is the Linde I know.”
She took a sip of her coffee, her expression turning practical. “Just one problem with that plan.”
“What?” I asked, already running through the logistics in my head—shelter hours, adoption fees, how to transport a dog in my rental car.
“How are you going to take the dog to him?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You have no idea where he is.”
The triumphant energy in my chest deflated. She was right. He wasn’t answering his phone, and he wouldn’t be at the cottage. My mind immediately started churning through options—tracking his vehicle’s transponder, pinging his phone’s last known tower location, running his plates . . .
She watched the calculations flash across my face and let out a small chuckle, cutting me off. “Relax, hotshot.” A smirk played on her lips. “While you’ve been moping, I’ve been keeping track of your friend. He’s in Maplebridge at the home of Gene and Leslie Walker. Do you need the address?”
I leapt to my feet. “O’Dooley, I’m going to hug you. Just accept it.”