Epilogue

Kenzie trotted up the steps to her mother’s house. She hadn’t called first. For some reason, she’d wanted to spend the hour and a half trip from Baltimore to D.C. in silence, just thinking, processing the events of the last few days, reveling in the successes, mourning the failures. She didn’t want a conversation with her mother to interrupt that.

While her burns were checked at the local hospital, Scott had undergone three hours’ worth of surgery in Baltimore to pin his arm back together. He’d spent a day or so in intensive care, but the doctors expected him to fully recover. His family was with him. In fact, Kenzie had a great picture of him in bed with his daughter, Cara, curled up next to him, their matching pink casts brightening up the room.

John Crowfeather was filling the director in on the resolution of the case. Grayson Chambers was dead in the burned-out cabin. The ME prelim said he’d died of smoke inhalation. Billy was dead, too. His body had dropped down when the second floor of the cabin collapsed but it was clear that three of Kenzie’s four bullets had found their mark. The fourth suspect had fled the burning structure, but not soon enough: Agents and police had easily captured him in the woods.

Zoe would be fine. She was in Children’s Hospital in D.C., her parents at her side, undergoing treatment from one of the foremost pediatric diabetes specialists in the nation.

The only unhappy law enforcement official was the assistant U.S. attorney charged with prosecuting the influence-peddling case against Senator Grable. He was furious the director had ignored his warning that assigning Kenzie to the Zoe kidnapping case would mess up his case against Grable.

Ah, well, Kenzie thought.

She knocked on the dark oak door of her mother’s home. She inhaled the scent of the boxwoods on either side of the porch, the smell of her childhood. Seconds later, the door swung open.

“Well! You certainly picked an inconvenient time to show up,” her mother said. She was dressed in a beige silk suit, high heels, and her hair was swept up in a French knot. “My bridge club is here!”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Kenzie said, stepping in. “I just came to get Jack.”

“He’s in the backyard. I had no idea how much hair dogs left around.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Mackenzie, whatever did you do to your eyebrows? Gracious!”

Kenzie walked from the front door straight down the hallway to the kitchen, being careful not to interrupt the conversation going on in the dining room. The bridge ladies took their game seriously. She opened the back door and looked around. There, lying in the cool earth under a hydrangea bush, lay her dog. He looked asleep.

“Jack!” she called. The black-and-white spaniel’s head flew up. “Where’s your ball?” He leaped to his feet. He threw himself at her, jumping on her and licking her. He turned in circles at her feet as she petted him. “You missed me, didn’t you?” Kenzie thrust her hands into Jack’s soft coat, relishing the feel of his fur. “I missed you, too,” she said, and she thumped his side. “I really, really missed you.” She knelt down and he kissed her on the chin. She wrestled with him in the grass, pushing him, tackling him, and grabbing his muzzle, and he wiggled with delight.

Then she lay down, and looked up into the bright blue sky. He snuggled next to her, and she stroked him. She felt his soft fur, smelled the hydrangeas, and relished the warm sun. She felt very aware of the burns on her legs, burns that would take time to heal, burns that reminded her of her walk through the fire.

“Oh, God,” she said out loud, “thank you. Thank you so much!”

And she squeezed Jack a little harder, and he licked her face, and she laughed. “There’s this guy,” she began, “named Crow, and you’ll like him . . .”