Burke was in the driver’s seat of his Ford, the door cracked open and his left leg planted outside. He’d stopped to put gas in his car, but the high roof at Wawa did nothing to keep the rain from sweeping beneath. That being the case, he’d taken shelter in the driver’s seat while the pump ran. The smell of gas was strong, countless tiny spills on the ground leeching out with the moisture. Transferring to his shoes. And then to the floor mat.
His detective’s brain never stopped working.
He was on his way to dinner with his wife, but running late. Burke picked up his phone to send Vicky an ETA text when a message from an unknown number arrived. He read it once. Then more carefully a second time.
Agent Burke. This is Sarah Ridgeway. I have critically important information. You need to see what’s inside a townhouse at 3012 P Street. I’m guessing you will have to get a search warrant, but trust me—it is VITAL that you look into this.
I’ll get in touch again in the morning. PLEASE do not call or text back now. Will explain tomorrow. Once you see what’s inside this residence, you will understand.
Burke stared at the screen. His first inclination was that Sarah Ridgeway had come unglued. Had she been drinking? Was he getting caught up in some nasty marital spat? He’d been with the FBI a long time, long enough to have a knack for reading people. His initial take on Sarah Ridgeway had been positive. A solid woman with a lot on her plate, but coping well. He was glad he’d taken the time to track her down. Unfortunately, none of that squared with the message he was looking at now.
The pump outside clicked off, breaking his trance.
He typed in the address she’d given him on Google Maps. A seventeen-minute drive into the heart of Georgetown. He checked the time on his phone. He would be severely late for dinner if he diverted there and started poking around. Without a warrant, there was little he could do. Maybe circle the place on foot, look in a window. Possibly manufacture an excuse to knock on the door if he was feeling ambitious.
“Search warrant,” he muttered. What were the chances of that at seven o’clock on a Friday night? Close to zero, even if he could show good cause. What he had was a vague text from a woman he barely knew. It might be different this time next year—if she became First Lady of the United States. Today, however, Sarah Ridgeway was just like anybody else.
Then there was the other side of the equation: Burke had broken more dinner dates with his wife than he cared to remember, and tonight was their anniversary. He couldn’t stand Vicky up. What was it? Twenty-four years? He needed to do the math on the way.
Moments later, he splattered out onto the road headed for Angelino’s. He would check out the address in Georgetown first thing in the morning. Maybe call Sarah Ridgeway before he did and get a little more information.
Whatever she was stirred up about, it would have to wait.
Sarah lay in bed like a swooning Victorian dowager—all that was missing was to put the back of her hand to her forehead.
“I’ll be fine,” she said as Bryce came out of the bathroom.
He sat next to her on the bed. A terse smile. It reminded her of … nothing.
“I thought you might want this,” he said, holding out an old bottle of Ambien. She’d been given a prescription during his final deployment. Alyssa had been going through a rough patch, and Bryce was in a hot zone, his unit taking regular casualties. Sarah had been at the end of her tether, not sleeping, and her doctor suggested medicating.
She said, “I haven’t used those in a long time.”
“I know. But you kept them. There’s only a few left, but if you’re having trouble sleeping—why not?”
Sarah took the pill bottle, set it on the nightstand next to her tea. “All right … maybe.”
“I’m going to grab a shower.” He got up and walked to the bathroom, stripping off his shirt on the way. She saw the familiar scars on his back—which was probably the point.
The door closed and the shower began running. Sarah picked up the Ambien, saw four pills remaining. Hadn’t there been more? She looked at her tea suspiciously, picked up the cup and took a guarded sip. No odd taste. Paranoia was definitely taking hold.
She heard splashing in the shower and steam curled under the base of the door. It seemed oddly malevolent. Sarah opened the bottle, dumped two pills into her palm. She got up and carried them, along with the mug of tea, to the bathroom down the hall—no camera there, as far as she could remember. She poked both pills down the sink drain, dumped half the tea, then flicked on the water to wash away any traces. She hurried back, returned everything to the nightstand, and rolled onto her side. Sarah drew the covers up to her chin, a portrait of misery.
When he came out of the bathroom minutes later, her eyes were shut tight. She heard him pad across the wood floor, pause nearby. It was all she could do to remain motionless, keep her breathing rhythmic. Then a tiny clatter—the last two pills rattling, followed by a plastic tap as he returned the bottle to the nightstand.
His next stop was the closet, probably for sleeping shorts and a T-shirt. He went downstairs, and soon she heard him talking on the phone. Something about the campaign.
Part of her wished she’d taken the pills. She envisioned him coming to bed in an hour, the sheets pulling back as he slid in behind her. His humid breath on her neck. Sarah was exhausted, yet she doubted she could sleep.
As she lay alone, silent and nerve-racked, her thoughts diverted to a new question. One she’d managed to avoid since grasping the truth.
If the man downstairs was an imposter … then where was the real Bryce?
The only realistic answer was too dreadful to think about.