As a rule, Burke’s inclination when hitting a roadblock in any investigation was to revert to the most direct course. In the matter of finding Sarah Ridgeway, he decided Route 1 involved an unannounced visit to her house.
He arrived to find the driveway empty, and immediately felt dispirited. On his last visit he remembered seeing a Japanese sedan at the top of the hammerhead. Burke had already done his homework—or more precisely, Alves had done it for him. Virginia DMV records verified that Bryce and Sarah Ridgeway owned two cars: a Toyota Camry, jointly owned, and a Tesla Model 3 titled in his name only. It suggested the Tesla was the congressman’s ride, although owing to his hectic schedule, Burke figured Ridgeway would take a hired car to the airport. Better that than to leave a new Tesla parked outside in the middle of winter. The garage was a single-stall, and he guessed the Tesla was inside right now, probably hooked up to a charging station. Altogether, a lot of conjecture, but the conclusion if it held: Sarah Ridgeway wasn’t home.
Walking up the gray-paver path for the second time, he recalled the news conference the congressman had held here the night of the bombing. Bryce Ridgeway had come a long way since then.
Burke rang the doorbell and waited patiently, thinking there was at least a chance that their daughter—Alyssa, was it?—might be home. When no one answered, he sank the button a second time. Burke stood on the landing, his breath going to vapor. The temperature had been dropping since the storm front passed, Arctic air sweeping in.
Nobody came to the door.
He about-faced, walked halfway to the street, and then paused to take a good look at the house. He saw nothing suspicious. The backyard was fenced, but the gate beside the garage was cracked open. Almost like an invitation.
Burke looked left and right down the street. He saw no one.
Sarah pulled to the curb in front of Ruby’s house but left the engine running. The drill would normally be to text Alyssa and tell her she was waiting out front. Walking to the front door and knocking had ended years ago—from the teen point of view, nothing good came from moms and dads being forced to chat. A bit of parental social distancing.
The problem today was that Sarah, bound by her newfound paranoia, still had her phone turned off. That being the case, she did what her own mother might have done back in the day—she tapped the horn twice.
A minute later she saw a flutter at the front curtain. Soon after, Alyssa stormed out. She looked peeved. Sarah vacated the driver’s seat, walking around to the passenger door so Alyssa could take the wheel.
“Why was your phone off?” Alyssa fussed.
“Sorry … long story. You weren’t trying to call, were you?”
“Yeah. I wanted to stay longer.”
They took their respective seats. A scowling Alyssa adjusted the rear-view mirror as if punishing it.
Sarah said. “I have a lot going on today.”
“Like what?”
“I need to go out to Winchester to see Grandpa. They called and said there are some papers I need to sign.” Sarah didn’t like lying to her daughter, but was surprised how easily it came. “I figured you could come with me.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t. I’ve got piles of work to do before school starts Tuesday. Anyway, I just saw Grandpa a few days ago.”
Sarah was taken aback. It was a complication she hadn’t anticipated, and one that immediately didn’t sit well: Alyssa spending the day in a house where every room was wired for video.
Alyssa looked over her shoulder and reached for the shift lever.
“Wait!” Sarah said.
Alyssa froze. “Did I do something wrong?”
Sarah closed her eyes. “No, baby. I was just thinking … if you stayed here this afternoon, could you get your work done with Ruby?”
Her daughter’s mood bounced like a basketball off concrete. “Sure! We have three classes together—that would be perfect!”
Mom the Educator yielded to Mom the Creeped Out. “Okay. Go back in, make sure it’s okay with her mother.”
Minutes later Alyssa was thumbs-upping at the door, a vision of teenage pleasantness. Even a coat hanger smile.
Sarah rolled down the passenger window, and called out, “I’ll pick you up before dinner.”
Her daughter waved then disappeared.
Before she got under way, Sarah decided to venture a look at her phone. She turned it on and saw the voice mail icon dotted with a red three: Alyssa’s call, another from Agent Burke, and a third from Claire.
She tapped on Claire’s message and heard two words. “Call me.”
Sarah did.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Are you home yet?” Claire asked.
“No, I’m on my way now.”
“Okay. When you get there, you need to check something…”