He walked her to her car, and she drove back to her town house, cutting down the quiet streets of Old Town Alexandria. She parked and hurried down the brick sidewalk to her front door.

Zoe’s ring of keys rattled in her hand as she twisted the old lock to the front door of her home. The hardware was brass and had stunning detail on both the handle and faceplate. However, it required finesse and jiggling to work, as if it really did not want her in the house.

She missed her modern condo with the doorman and the view of downtown Arlington and the Potomac. She also dreamed about the dual-head jet shower and the huge walk-in closet. Sure, it had had zero personality or history, but it had been convenient for work, which was what had kept her going after Jeff had died. And yet here she stood.

She closed the door behind her and hooked her purse strap on the end of the bullnose banister. Climbing the narrow staircase, she passed the wall cluttered with photo memories and paused to look at the picture of Jeff and his uncle. Both were still grinning.

It had been eight years since that picture had been taken, but it might as well have been a lifetime. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the picture.

As she climbed the last steps, she shrugged off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse. She was anxious to peel off the smells of the day and wash away the lingering scents of the crime scene. She turned on the shower, knowing the old pipes needed time to coax out hot water. As the water ran, she stripped and unfastened her hair.

A glance to the right captured the large picture of her when she had been at her peak physical shape, leaning back against a tree. She would have tossed it, but it had been a favorite of Jeff’s.

Zoe turned to the mirror and ran her hands over a belly no longer rock hard or perfectly flat. Her hips had also rounded since then, and the tone in her muscles had softened. She missed the ability to command her body to move in any direction and have it immediately obey.

She stepped under the hot spray, shifting her focus from the past to a very dark present that involved two missing women, a body in a motel room, and another stuffed in a dumpster.

She lathered her hair and washed. The warmth stoked the fatigue, and she was drawn to the unmade bed that waited for her. Instead, she turned the warm tap to cold, inhaling a breath as the chilled water smacked her skin and made her heart jump.

She switched off the water, quickly dried her hair, and dressed in a clean suit. The other would be dry-cleaned before she would consider wearing it again.

After heading downstairs, she made a cup of coffee and sipped it as she stared out her back window toward the long thin yard now overgrown with vines and weeds. She remembered visiting this house when she and her husband had first met a decade ago. It had been spring. The yard had been meticulously groomed, with its garden full of red and white tulips.

She popped a frozen bagel in the toaster, pleased with herself for stocking a few items in the freezer before she’d left for her last assignment. She set up her french press for another cup of coffee, knowing it would take at least two to shake off the dull headache.

As the bagel heated, she checked the fridge and pulled out a stick of butter. The toaster clicked off the seconds. Her phone rang; it was Vaughan.

She cleared her throat, doing her best to sound awake and alert. “Did you miss me?”

“Guess who our Jane Doe is.”

Our. A dead body seemed such an odd thing to claim as a pair, but this was police work, and partners bonded over the strangest things. “Must be good—I can hear it in your voice.”

“Veronica Manchester. Mr. Foster’s office buddy.”

A pulse of energy more powerful than any caffeine jolted her into high gear. “Do you have an address?”

“I do. I’m on my way there now. Care to join me?”

“You couldn’t keep me away.”

Fifteen minutes later, the black SUV pulled up in front of her townhome as she was wrestling with her backpack, freshly filled coffee mug, and the damn lock that required two hands. Coffee sloshed on her skin. She cursed, yanking on the door handle while turning the key. It was quite an art.

Shaking the coffee off her hands, she slid into the passenger seat.

“I can’t get over the fact that you live on Captain’s Row.” He stared at her townhome with a tinge of disbelief. “What did Uncle Jimmy do?”

She set her mug in the coffee holder and clicked her seat belt in place. “James Malone was one of the best art forgers in the world. He made a fortune before he was arrested by the FBI. Law enforcement gave him a choice to either rot in a cell or help them. Jimmy didn’t want his talent to go to waste nor his assets seized, so he put his heart and soul into finding forgeries while living quietly here, where no one was the wiser.”

“He must have been talented.”

“He was in his own right but was never a great commercial success. He decided to show the art world he was better than they were. And then taught me how to spot the fakes. His tutoring got me my job at the FBI.”

“Why tell you his secrets?”

“He wanted the world to know. Didn’t want his skills going to the grave.”

“You going to sell the house? It’s got to be worth a fortune.”

“Maybe. Eventually. I have to clean it out, and that’s going to take time.”

“Looks pretty good to me.”

“Don’t be fooled by the outside.”

“You could get two million right now even if it was crammed full of stuff.”

“That stuff contains a lot of my history. And I want to figure that out before I make a decision.” She shifted in her seat. “Now, if we are finished with the twenty questions about my strange inheritance, can we figure out who killed Veronica and abducted Hadley and Skylar Foster?”

He pulled onto the cobblestone street and drove toward the banks of the Potomac River. The moon was full and cast a bright light over the smooth waters that drifted past.

“What can you tell me about Veronica Manchester?” she asked.

“As you already know, she worked as a new accountant at Foster’s firm. She was thirty-four and from the area. That’s all I have so far.”

He drove along Union Street and then worked his way back up toward King Street and I-395. Another ten minutes, and they were in Arlington, parking in front of a high-rise modern apartment building. In the lobby, they showed their badges to the guard at the desk.

“I’m Agent Vaughan. I called you about an hour ago. Agent Spencer and I are here to see Veronica Manchester’s apartment.”

“It’s early,” the guard said.

“I know it’s early. I still need the apartment opened.” He removed a piece of paper she knew was a search warrant from his breast pocket. She had to give Vaughan credit for finding a judge so quickly and getting a warrant executed.

“I’ll take you up,” the guard said. He spoke into a two-way radio and notified his partner to work the front desk. As soon as a second guard appeared from a side door, the trio took the center elevator up to the eighth floor.

“You know your residents pretty well?” Zoe asked.

“Yes. That’s part of the job,” the guard said.

“When is the last time you saw Veronica Manchester?” she pressed.

“At least a week ago.”

“Did she travel a lot?” Vaughan asked.