A second crime scene team was making a sweep of the residence. The chief didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. This was going to be a particularly high-profile investigation, and he wanted nothing left to chance.

Falco exited the french doors and walked toward her. “They’re done.”

With the bodies at the morgue and the evidence collectors done, there was no reason for them to stay any longer.

“Let’s call it a day.” She headed back into the house to find Matthews.

Matthews and Baker would see that the house was secured. Two other uniforms would babysit the place until morning, and then another team would take their place. No one was to come near this scene until further notice.

And there was always the chance the wife might have escaped death and would return to the house, perhaps in shock and half-dead from her own injuries. An APB had been issued for her. Both Abbott vehicles remained in the garage. Whatever way she’d departed the premises, it was not in one of the couple’s cars. A spokesperson for the family would appear on the local evening news with an appeal for Sela’s safe return. If they were lucky, she would be found in the next twenty-four hours. The idea was unlikely, but they could hope.

With Falco following, Kerri exited the crime scene and climbed into her Wagoneer. She turned the vehicle around and drove out of the gate. She waved to the officer maintaining the outer perimeter. Thankfully the reporters had decided there was nothing more to be gained by hanging out near the victim’s house.

“We going back to Abbott Options tomorrow?” Falco asked.

“We are.” Today’s visit had gotten the ball rolling. The staff had fallen apart as the news had spread through the offices. The few who had answered questions had been so emotional it was difficult to cultivate complete responses.

The staff was smaller than Kerri had expected. From what she understood, the primary operation remained in San Francisco. The office here was more the face of the company than the research and development activities. Abbott’s personal assistant, Marcella Gibbons, was pulling together the answers to many of their questions.

“While the techs were finishing up in the house, I flipped through a few of the photo albums,” Falco said. “Checked the personal files—any medical records I could find—and the medicine cabinets. Besides Sela’s mother, no one in the family was on any sort of prescription drugs unless the prenatal vitamins count.”

Kerri felt him watching her as she drove. “Anything else?”

“After looking at those photos, I’m convinced there’s no way Mrs. Abbott killed her mother or her husband.” He shook his head. “No way. They looked happy. Over the moon about the baby coming. It doesn’t add up.”

“Whether she did or not, she’s probably dead too,” Kerri reminded him. “If she was still alive, anyone capable of providing whatever the perpetrator wanted in return for her release would know by now. No one in the family has heard a word. No one at the office. No ransom demand. No contact at all.”

Silence filled the space between them for a few miles.

Then Falco said, “I have a kid.”

She glanced at him. “You do? I thought you’d never been married. No kids. Free as a bird, single guy.”

He shrugged. Stared forward. “I have no entanglements, Devlin. No wife, no mortgage, and no child that I am legally responsible for.”

She frowned. “Wait, you just said you have a kid.”

He nodded. “Boy. Eight years old. I gave up parental rights when he was six hours and four minutes old.”

Kerri wasn’t sure what she should say to that. Why? would be the next logical response. Not something she really wanted to know. If he was a bigger shit than his colorful reputation suggested, she would just as soon skip the conversation.

“It wasn’t because I wanted to,” he said before she could ask, his voice lower, softer than she’d ever heard it. “It was because it was the right thing to do. I wanted him to be safe and happy. As long as he was connected to me, he wouldn’t be either.”

“Wow.” That was certainly unexpected. “Do you know where he is now?”

“Huntsville. She sends me pictures and notes about what he’s doing and how school is going. Sometimes I drive by and see him playing in the yard or getting off the bus at his school. He played soccer this year. I even went to a game.”

“Have you considered asking for visitation? Sounds like she’s cooperative on some level.”

He shook his head. “Her husband adopted him. He’s his father. I don’t want to do any harm to that relationship. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Maybe the guy was a little deeper than she’d given him credit for. “That has to be hard, Falco.”

“Yeah, well, I made my decisions. I won’t have him pay for those.”

Prison? Drugs? Not possible. He likely wouldn’t be a cop now if that were the case.

“There are things I can’t tell you, Devlin,” he announced, as if he’d read her mind.

She braked to a stop for a red light and turned to him. “What does that mean, Falco?”

“I watched you today. You’re a damned good detective. I’m lucky to have you for a partner, and I know that. I don’t want you to judge me on what you think you know when you don’t really know me at all.”

A horn blew, and she forced her attention forward. The light had changed. She shifted her foot from the brake to the accelerator. “Okay. I’ll do my best not to base my assessments on rumor. I’ll stick to what I see with my own eyes. Does that work for you?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Maybe tomorrow you’ll even let me drive.”

Kerri laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Falco.”

More of that silence settled between them; oddly this time it was a little more relaxed.

Her cell sounded off, and she grabbed it, checked the screen. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was local. She hit speaker with her thumb. “Devlin,” she said instead of hello.

“Detective, this is Marcella Gibbons.”

“Ms. Gibbons.” Kerri exchanged a glance with Falco. “Have you found something that might prove useful to our investigation?”

“I was just thinking about something Detective Falco said.”

Kerri split her attention between her partner and the mounting traffic. “What’s that, Ms. Gibbons?”

“When we were in Mr. Abbott’s office, Detective Falco asked if the laptop on the desk was his.”

“And you said it was,” Falco spoke up.

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I started thinking about the laptop. The one at the office is the one he used for official business. All the security software, et cetera, that we use in Abbott Options is loaded onto it. But he also has a personal laptop. You should have found that one at his home.”

Another of those looks passed between Kerri and Falco before she said, “We only found a desktop computer in the home office. Two iPads and two cell phones. There was no laptop.”

They’d also found household inventory sheets in the files, the sort people filled out for insurance companies. Nothing listed was unaccounted for. There was a laptop listed, but they had assumed it was the one at his office.

“If his personal laptop—and it’s exactly like the one in his office—is not in his home or in his car, then it’s missing.”

They spoke for a few minutes more. Several reporters had camped outside the gates at Abbott Options, causing issues getting in and out. Kerri promised to send an officer to handle the situation. Ms. Gibbons agreed to come to the house tomorrow and do a walk-through with Officer Matthews to see if she noticed anything else that might be missing.

Until about three minutes ago, Kerri had been fairly convinced that the only thing missing was the pregnant wife.

It seemed that wasn’t the case at all.

7

I had to do it . . .

There was never a choice.

I was aware of that undeniable detail when I started this so very long ago. I was warned. Good God, I was warned. Most of my adult life the words haunted my existence.

You can’t do this. You will fail. Just like she did.

I work the rope around my wrist back and forth. The skin is raw already, but I cannot stop. I cannot fail.

My preparation was meticulous. Every single detail was in place. You see, perception is everything.

But I had not anticipated this.

Now, I have only one thing to lose, and I took that with me. Do I wish other things could have turned out differently? That perhaps I could have seen this one coming? Maybe there was a moment . . .

Ultimately, it wouldn’t have mattered. I would have lost the part that felt almost real anyway. Deception, betrayal—no matter how pure the motive—is never well received. Not even by those who profess to love you.

That final image of him appears in my mind’s eye. The tissue around the hole in his forehead had puckered and started to turn an ugly shade of purple. I blink the memory away, and I experience something akin to sadness. It feels strange. I can’t remember the last time I experienced a true emotion other than bitterness, unless, of course, determination counts. Yet somehow I feel . . . regret.

I’m sorry.

I don’t want to feel this sadness. That wasn’t part of the plan. Yet I do.