CHAPTER ELEVEN
Phil Dehan’s house looked like something out of a different universe—one where people lived actual lives instead of stalking crime scenes and inhaling precinct coffee fumes.
A basketball rolled down the driveway as Marcus stepped out of the Bureau sedan.
A dog barked somewhere inside—big, enthusiastic, extremely unhelpful in identifying which room the noise was coming from.
The front yard was littered with scooters, sidewalk chalk, and the unmistakable debris field of a recent water-gun battle.
Not Garrett’s world, Marcus thought.
Not Hayes’s world either.
The front door swung open before he could knock.
A little girl of about seven stared up at him with suspicious gravity, a plush unicorn tucked under one arm, the dog now visible behind her, vibrating with friendly menace.
“Daddy!” she yelled. “There’s a giant man at the door!”
A voice floated from inside. “Ask him if he’s from the FBI!”
Marcus tried a tentative wave. “Hi. Yes, I’m from the FBI. Do you know what that is?”
The girl considered this, decided it was insufficiently exciting, and wandered off without a word. The dog replaced her in the doorway, tail slapping the wall.
Phil Dehan appeared next—a tall man in his forties wearing jeans, a T-shirt advertising a microbrewery, and the dazed look of a parent who has accepted chaos as a lifestyle choice.
“Agent Reid?” he asked, extending a hand. “Come in. Sorry about the noise. The kids are all off school with the ‘flu.” He made air-quotes and a face as he said ‘flu’, suggesting a degree of scepticism as to the illness, and Marcus instantly warmed to the guy.
Inside, the house was a riot of lived-in color.
Toys under sofas, school drawings taped to walls, an open-plan kitchen full of mismatched mugs and the smell of pancakes.
Two kids chased each other past Marcus, shrieking with joyful violence.
A woman—presumably Phil’s wife—offered Marcus a distracted smile while trying to coax a toddler out of a cupboard.
Phil ushered Marcus through the mayhem toward a back room.
“Let’s hide in here,” he said. “My sanctuary. Where I pretend I still have hobbies.”
He pushed open the door to what might once have been a garage but was now a haphazard repository of guitars, sports memorabilia, comfy chairs, and a battered foosball table. A dartboard hung crookedly above an old fridge.
Phil gestured Marcus toward a chair. “Sorry. For the mess. I didn’t expect this today, obviously.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, and for the first time the shock fully showed.
“I still can’t believe it,” he admitted. “Tom’s dead. Murdered. It doesn’t make any sense. Not him.”
Marcus nodded, letting the moment breathe. “I’m sorry to bring this into your home. I know it’s a bad time. And I’m conscious you just got off an early flight.”
“It’s… look. My kids are in the next room. I don’t want to scare them. But—” He looked Marcus straight on. “I need to help. Whatever I can do.”
Marcus took out his notebook. “You worked with him how long?”
“Three years, nearly four. Co-partner at Garrett Marcus shook his head.
“It was the father,” Phil said quietly. “Tom’s father. Had a family contracting business—local, old-school, no frills. It took a downturn when Tom was in his late twenties. The elder Garrett asked him for help—financially, I mean. To keep the company going.”
Marcus leaned forward. “And Tom refused?”
“Flat-out.” Phil shook his head. “He didn’t just refuse—he cut ties. Publicly. Told anyone who would listen he wasn’t going to let his father drag him down. Said he’d build something on his own merits.” A bitter twist of the mouth. “And he did. Built an empire while his dad’s company collapsed.”
“What happened to the father?”
Phil sighed. “Heart attack. Not long after. People here say it was the stress. Or the humiliation. Some even say Tom’s betrayal pushed him over the edge. And I don’t know if it’s true or not, but more than one person has told me Tom refused to visit him on his death-bed.”
Marcus made a note. “Did Tom ever express regret? Guilt?”
“No.” Phil answered immediately, then softened. “I mean… not to me. Look, it doesn’t show him in a good light, I know that. But I’m not here to judge the man’s relationship with his father. I can only tell you my experience of him, which was a good few years later.”
“And that was?”
“He was tough. He was direct. But fair. Honest—as honest as you get in commercial real estate, anyway.” Phil shrugged. “Whatever happened between him and his dad? That’s not something he ever talked about. And I’m not going to judge. Families. Families can be complicated, right?”
A crash from the kitchen made them both jump. Phil called out, “Everything okay?”
A small voice answered, “It was an accident!”
Phil winced. “See? Never a dull moment.”
Marcus stood. “One last thing…”
“Isn’t that what Lieutenant Columbo always says? Sorry…”
Marcus gave a polite smile. “I’m not trying to catch you out. Did you ever see a photo of Tom’s father? I mean, in Tom’s office, or his home?”
Phil thought about it. “Never. I guess that tells us something.”
“It might. I appreciate your time, Mr. Dehan, really.”
Phil nodded. “If anything else comes up… call me. I want whoever did this caught.”
As Marcus stepped back into the family chaos—kids laughing despite the shattered plate, wife soothing the now-crying toddler, dog enthusiastically greeting his return—it struck him how far this world was from Thomas Garrett’s marble office.
From Jennifer Hayes’s immaculate penthouse. From the cold tableaux left behind.
Two victims so different in life.
So identical in death.
In the driveway, Marcus paused beside the sedan, notebook open to the two case summaries.
Hayes refused to see her father as he declined.
Garrett refused to help his father as he failed.
Both choices made in public. Both unapologetic.
The killer hadn’t chosen them because he knew them.
He'd chosen them because they fit a story.
A story he believed he was rewriting in blood.