Jenna Galloway loved Monday mornings. Her partner, Andre Stone, always left early to do his physical therapy at the VA and from there would head over to visit his grandmother at the nursing home in Squirrel Hill. That left Jenna time to lounge in bed, take a long, long shower, get ready for the work day, pour a cup of coffee, and finally, take it downstairs from the loft on the top floor to their offices on the second.
It seemed such a simple thing, a morning to herself. Although she loved Andre and would never, ever tell him, sometimes she missed being single and having her place all to herself. So Monday mornings had become her weekly mini-vacations.
She used her key to open the door labeled Galloway and Stone Security Consultants and then turned to enter the alarm code and deactivate it since Tim, their new office assistant, had the day off. Tim was a forty-something bank manager who’d been downsized. He knew nothing about security but everything about keeping things organized, rolling with their perpetually changing schedule and cranky clients.
No one came to Galloway and Stone because they were happy; they came to Jenna and Andre because something in their world had gone dreadfully wrong, and they wanted things fixed—now. Tim had quickly become invaluable, and Jenna didn’t want to risk him meeting Morgan before she could make sure Morgan knew to treat him right and not with her usual brand of sarcasm and disdain for the people she labeled “Norms.”
The office’s main door opened onto a reception area with minimal furniture: two chairs with a table between them, a large concrete planter with a leafy fake ficus—because Jenna kept killing the real ones Andre tried to grow—along with Tim’s desk in front of an intimidating bank of mahogany file cabinets designed to impress despite the fact that they held only office supplies and snacks.
She flicked the lights on, took a sip of her coffee, and then spotted a large manila envelope on the corner of Tim’s desk, the padded kind that had bubble wrap inside to protect delicate objects. She grabbed it with her free hand.
Jenna took one more step, saw the writing in green ink on the envelope, and dropped her coffee mug.
The porcelain shattered against the hardwood floor and coffee splashed up in a wave, staining her Manolo Blahniks and favorite Donna Karan slacks. Jenna didn’t move. She didn’t breathe. Her entire body froze, her eyes fixed on the writing on the envelope.
Judge Patrick Galloway
c/o Jenna Galloway
Galloway and Stone
Pittsburgh PA
Personal and Confidential
No street address, no postage, no meter markings. The bottom of the envelope felt rigid against her fingers, and there was a faint scent of something oily. Jenna had been a US Postal Inspector before she’d opened Galloway and Stone—the package had every sign of a possible explosive device.
But she didn’t need her training to tell her this package was a bomb. She’d known it as soon as she’d seen the green ink and the bold handwriting with its flourishes, a strange combination of block print and cursive. She already knew what was in this package—it was her family legacy, the mystery that had haunted her most of her life and had driven her from her home in California all the way to choosing a career as a federal agent with the postal service.
Because Judge Patrick Galloway was her grandfather. And almost twenty years ago, he’d been killed by a bomb in an envelope exactly like the one she was now holding.
Her hand with the envelope trembled, then began to shake violently. She braced it with her other hand and pulled a slow, deep breath, trying to combat the fear and adrenaline overwhelming her system. She’d thought she’d buried that time so long ago—her feelings for her grandfather the Judge; the guilt and anger and pain and fear his death had wrought.
But now the sight of green ink slashed across a plain manila envelope was enough to bring it all back.
They’d never caught the bomber. Jenna remembered so many nights shivering alone in her bed, unable to force herself up to even use the bathroom in the dark, certain the movement would trigger a bomb beneath her bed. She’d drifted like a ghost through a house in mourning, convinced the bomber would seek her out next and punish her for her sins.
As if a twelve-year-old girl had sins venal enough to deserve a death sentence. Still, somehow she knew it was all her fault—the bomb, the Judge’s horrible death, the tears her mother and grandmother wept.
Jenna couldn’t tear her gaze away from the package cradled in her hands. For so many years she’d buried every memory of the Judge and his death. Yet, now the Judge and his legacy had returned with a vengeance.
A tiny noise like an animal caught in a trap escaped her and her bladder suddenly felt full. She closed her eyes, blocking out the ghastly green ink declaring her death sentence, and shuddered in a jagged breath as she fought the panic that throttled her throat.
One breath in, which barely made it to her chest. She tried another, this time forcing it deeper. One more, slower, controlled.
She opened her eyes and saw a petite brunette with short curly hair and outrageous sunglasses staring back at her.
“Is that my welcome home present?” Morgan asked, as she slipped her hands beneath the trembling package that was threatening to slide free of Jenna’s numb fingers. “Jenna, you shouldn’t have.”