CHAPTER ONE
Kate sat at the kitchen table with her laptop open, scrolling through a case file from the Portland field office while Michael stacked wooden blocks on the floor beside her chair.
The morning sun streamed through the window above the sink, warming the tile countertop and casting a pleasant glow across the room.
She'd made coffee an hour ago, and the mug sat half-empty next to her.
Michael was building something that might have been a tower or possibly a bridge.
At three years old, his architectural intentions weren't always clear, but he worked with intense focus, his tongue poking out slightly between his lips the way it always did when he concentrated.
Kate glanced down at him every few minutes, making sure he hadn't wandered off or decided to taste the blocks instead of stacking them.
Seeing him at work in such a way was a reminder that in another year, there would be decisions about preschool that she and Allen would have to make.
But that was a worry for another time. Currently, the case file on her screen detailed a series of bank frauds across three states.
The Portland field office had requested her input on potential suspect profiles, specifically whether the pattern suggested organized crime involvement or a smaller operation.
Kate had been working through the financial records for the past two days, noting inconsistencies and connections that the original investigators might have missed.
It was the kind of work she'd come to appreciate over the past six months, challenging enough to stay interesting but contained enough that she could do it from home.
The transition to remote consulting had been easier than she'd expected—which was a great surprise, since she’d been planning on it for nearly a full year now.
After everything that had happened with Diana Vance, after Allen's surgery and the long recovery that followed, Kate had made peace with stepping back from active fieldwork.
She still consulted for the FBI, still used the skills she'd developed over three decades, but she did it on her own terms now.
Twenty hours a week maximum, handling cases she could work from her laptop, and no more late-night stakeouts or chasing suspects through dark buildings. So far, it seemed perfect.
Allen had returned to work on a limited basis several weeks ago, easing back into his consulting practice with limited hours.
The bullet wound from the encounter with Diana had healed well, though he still felt occasional discomfort when he moved certain ways.
They'd both learned to live with the reminders of that night, knowing that the physical and psychological scars would probably never completely fade.
But they were here, together, and that was what mattered.
Kate saved her notes on the fraud case and closed that file, opening another folder on her desktop.
This one was labeled "Project Notes" and contained a collection of documents she'd been working on during her downtime—her memoirs.
The idea had started as a joke during coffee with DeMarco a few months back, but the more Kate thought about it, the more it made sense.
Three decades of FBI work, over two hundred cases with one of the best success rates in FBI history, and countless stories that deserved to be preserved.
She'd started putting together outlines, organizing cases by theme and chronology, jotting down memories while they were still fresh.
The writing itself was harder than she'd anticipated.
Kate could analyze a crime scene or interview a suspect with confidence, but translating those experiences into narrative form required different skills.
She'd been taking it slowly, working on the project in small chunks, building the structure before worrying too much about the actual prose.
For now, she had rough timelines and case summaries, notes about partners she'd worked with, and lessons she'd learned. The real writing would come later.
On the floor, Michael knocked over his tower with a satisfied crash, then immediately started rebuilding.
Kate smiled and returned her attention to the laptop, pulling up her email to check for any new messages from the Portland office.
Instead, she found two texts from DeMarco that had come in over the past hour.
The first was a question about whether Kate had time next week to review a cold case from Baltimore. The second simply read: "Call me when you get a chance?"
Kate had been texting back and forth with DeMarco several times a week ever since DeMarco’s promotion three months ago.
DeMarco was now Supervisory Special Agent in Charge of the Criminal Investigative Division, a position that came with significantly more responsibility and considerably less fieldwork.
They'd joked about them both being desk-bound now, though DeMarco's desk came with a much larger office and a team of agents to supervise.
Some of their texts were work-related, questions about cases, or requests for Kate's input on investigations.
But just as often, they texted about nothing in particular, sharing updates about their lives or complaining about bureaucratic headaches.
Kate valued the friendship they'd built over the years, the easy communication that didn't require constant maintenance.
And now that neither of them was constantly in the field, their relationship had taken on a much deeper edge of friendship.
She picked up her phone and called DeMarco directly. The line rang twice before connecting.
"Hey, Kate," DeMarco answered. "Thanks for calling back."
"Of course. What's up?"
"Nothing urgent, honestly. What are you up to?"
"Right now, I’m watching Michael rebuild a tower he just knocked down. I think we're on version three or four at this point."
DeMarco laughed. "Persistence. That's a good quality."
"How are things at the office?"
"Busy but manageable. We've got a decent team right now, which helps. Actually, that's kind of why I'm calling." DeMarco's tone shifted slightly, becoming more businesslike. It sounded good on her. "I have a favor to ask, if you're up for it."
Kate saved the document she'd been working on and gave the phone her full attention. "What kind of favor?"
"I'd like you to come by the office tomorrow if you can.
Not for a consultation or anything work-related, at least not directly.
" DeMarco paused again. "We have a new agent who transferred in from the Chicago office about three weeks ago.
She's good… really good, actually, but she's having some trouble adjusting to how we do things here.
I think she might benefit from talking to someone with your experience. "
"You want me to mentor her?" Kate asked, chuckling.
"Not officially, no. Nothing that formal. Just meet with her, maybe give her some perspective. She reminds me a lot of myself when I was starting out, actually. Smart, capable, but maybe trying a little too hard to prove herself. I’d do it myself, but I’m slammed for the next two weeks."
Kate remembered what DeMarco had been like when they first started working together.
Confident but defensive, always prepared for criticism, always ready to justify her decisions.
It had taken time for DeMarco to relax into her own abilities, to trust herself without constantly looking over her shoulder.
"What's her background?"
"Violent crimes, mostly. She worked gang cases in Chicago for four years before transferring here.
She's technically got more experience than some of the other junior agents, but she's still finding her footing with the team dynamics.
I think hearing from someone who's been through the full career arc, someone who's not her direct supervisor, might help her see the bigger picture. "
Kate glanced down at Michael, who had successfully rebuilt his tower and was now carefully placing a final block on top. "What time tomorrow?"
"Could you do ten? I know that's early, but she's got training in the afternoon and I thought it might be good to do this before her day gets too packed."
"Ten works. Allen can watch Michael."
"Great. I really appreciate this, Kate." DeMarco's voice warmed with genuine gratitude. "I know it's not exactly your usual consulting work, but I think it could make a real difference for her."
"It's perfectly fine. I'm happy to help."
They talked for a few more minutes, catching up on other small details before ending the call. Kate set her phone down and looked at the time on her laptop. She still had an hour before she needed to start thinking about lunch, enough time to make more progress on the fraud case notes.
But instead of returning to the case file, Kate found herself thinking about the meeting tomorrow.
DeMarco's request had seemed simple enough on the surface, just a casual mentoring session with a new agent.
Yet something about the conversation felt slightly off, a subtle undertone that suggested this wasn't quite as straightforward as it appeared.
Or maybe it could have just been that DeMarco was very busy.
On the other hand, Kate had known DeMarco long enough to recognize when she was being careful about how she framed something.
The way she'd described the new agent, the emphasis on needing perspective from someone outside the supervisory chain, the specific timing of the meeting before the agent's training session.
It all pointed to something more than a simple introduction.
She should have asked more questions, should have pressed for details about what exactly DeMarco expected from this meeting.
But she'd agreed too quickly, responding on instinct rather than analysis.
Now she was committed to showing up tomorrow morning without really understanding what she was walking into.
Kate pulled up her calendar and added the meeting to tomorrow's schedule.
Ten o'clock at the field office, duration unknown, purpose still somewhat unclear.
She'd know more when she got there, she supposed.
DeMarco wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important, and Kate trusted her judgment even when the full picture remained incomplete.
She returned to the fraud case, scrolling through transaction records and making notes about the patterns she'd identified.
But part of her attention stayed on tomorrow's meeting, wondering what exactly she'd just agreed to—and wondering if she was the right person to mentor a new agent in this new, modern environment.