her? Did he need money so badly that it out-weighed the risk? But the Baby Girl collection of videos and images should have easily netted him six to seven figures.
Maybe he had feelings for Baby Girl, in his own warped way? After all, it had only been the two of them for almost ten years. Could she even be his biological child? Had Daddy grown too attached, unable to destroy the evidence that was his Baby Girl?
Huge, huge risk. Born of sentiment? Hubris? Greed? Or simple naiveté?
Her cell phone rang. Nick, calling to check on her between patients.
For a fleeting moment, she was tempted to ignore his call, let it go to voice mail. Not because she resented the intrusion—far from it—but because sooner or later they’d need to address her future here at the Bureau, or lack there of.
She sank into her desk chair, her ankle thanking her with a sigh of relief, and answered.
“How’s it going?” Nick asked.
“Good,” she lied. He didn’t answer right away, so she amended it to, “Fine.” Still he waited—he knew her much too well. “Okay. The foot hurts like a sonofabitch and it’s the least of my worries.”
She gave him a quick rundown of the imminent demise of her squad and the decision she faced. “So what do you think? Can you see me sitting at home watching soap operas and eating bonbons?”
“As if.” The sound of his office chair squeaking as he leaned back emphasized his words. “We’ve talked about this. I’m fine with anything you want to do, as long as—”
“Megan,” she interrupted him. “We need to put her first. She’ll never let us move.” Not that Megan had spoken to Lucy about it. Any time Lucy or Nick broached the issue Megan left the room, refusing to discuss why she was so adamant about staying in the house where her grandmother had died.
They’d talked to the trauma counselor about it, but she didn’t have any answers, either.
Lucy hesitated, hating what it might do to her already shaky relationship with Megan if she and Nick forced the issue. “Unless maybe this is an opportunity. Do you think it’s a good thing for her to leave, start fresh?”
“Don’t go putting this on me.” His voice held a subtle tone of warning.
“You’re right. We need to decide together. But I’m not sure if even bringing it up is going to upset her. She’s so volatile—I’m never sure if she’s going to lash out at me or give me the cold shoulder.” Of course, she couldn’t really blame Megan. The one and only thing they seemed to agree on was that it was Lucy’s fault that her mother had gotten killed.
The logic was irrefutable. If Lucy was a “normal” mom instead of an FBI agent, then her family would never have been targeted. Who could argue with that?
“It’d be worse to hide anything from her,” Nick said. “The trauma counselor thinks Megan’s processing her grief in a very mature manner for a thirteen year old. I have to say, I agree. When I was driving her to school this morning she told me that since you were going back to work and would be too busy, she’s taking charge of Sunday dinner.”
Lucy was glad he couldn’t see her wince. Her mom usually hosted Sunday dinners, the table laden with all her most treasured family recipes—recipes Lucy, whose idea of cooking was pushing a button on a microwave, had never mastered. Loss swept through her, leaving her cold despite the sunshine streaming in through the window.
“One more thing to blame on me and my job,” Lucy noted.
“Not true.” Typical Nick. He’d never let her get away with feeling sorry for herself. “She’s trying to help, Lucy. She needs to do something to fill the void left by—”
“Nick. She won’t even talk to me, not about anything important, can barely look at me. And when she does, the look on her face—” Lucy broke off. It wasn’t just the pain she saw in Megan, it was the reason behind it.
If Lucy hadn’t been working late that day two months ago, her mom
Maybe he had feelings for Baby Girl, in his own warped way? After all, it had only been the two of them for almost ten years. Could she even be his biological child? Had Daddy grown too attached, unable to destroy the evidence that was his Baby Girl?
Huge, huge risk. Born of sentiment? Hubris? Greed? Or simple naiveté?
Her cell phone rang. Nick, calling to check on her between patients.
For a fleeting moment, she was tempted to ignore his call, let it go to voice mail. Not because she resented the intrusion—far from it—but because sooner or later they’d need to address her future here at the Bureau, or lack there of.
She sank into her desk chair, her ankle thanking her with a sigh of relief, and answered.
“How’s it going?” Nick asked.
“Good,” she lied. He didn’t answer right away, so she amended it to, “Fine.” Still he waited—he knew her much too well. “Okay. The foot hurts like a sonofabitch and it’s the least of my worries.”
She gave him a quick rundown of the imminent demise of her squad and the decision she faced. “So what do you think? Can you see me sitting at home watching soap operas and eating bonbons?”
“As if.” The sound of his office chair squeaking as he leaned back emphasized his words. “We’ve talked about this. I’m fine with anything you want to do, as long as—”
“Megan,” she interrupted him. “We need to put her first. She’ll never let us move.” Not that Megan had spoken to Lucy about it. Any time Lucy or Nick broached the issue Megan left the room, refusing to discuss why she was so adamant about staying in the house where her grandmother had died.
They’d talked to the trauma counselor about it, but she didn’t have any answers, either.
Lucy hesitated, hating what it might do to her already shaky relationship with Megan if she and Nick forced the issue. “Unless maybe this is an opportunity. Do you think it’s a good thing for her to leave, start fresh?”
“Don’t go putting this on me.” His voice held a subtle tone of warning.
“You’re right. We need to decide together. But I’m not sure if even bringing it up is going to upset her. She’s so volatile—I’m never sure if she’s going to lash out at me or give me the cold shoulder.” Of course, she couldn’t really blame Megan. The one and only thing they seemed to agree on was that it was Lucy’s fault that her mother had gotten killed.
The logic was irrefutable. If Lucy was a “normal” mom instead of an FBI agent, then her family would never have been targeted. Who could argue with that?
“It’d be worse to hide anything from her,” Nick said. “The trauma counselor thinks Megan’s processing her grief in a very mature manner for a thirteen year old. I have to say, I agree. When I was driving her to school this morning she told me that since you were going back to work and would be too busy, she’s taking charge of Sunday dinner.”
Lucy was glad he couldn’t see her wince. Her mom usually hosted Sunday dinners, the table laden with all her most treasured family recipes—recipes Lucy, whose idea of cooking was pushing a button on a microwave, had never mastered. Loss swept through her, leaving her cold despite the sunshine streaming in through the window.
“One more thing to blame on me and my job,” Lucy noted.
“Not true.” Typical Nick. He’d never let her get away with feeling sorry for herself. “She’s trying to help, Lucy. She needs to do something to fill the void left by—”
“Nick. She won’t even talk to me, not about anything important, can barely look at me. And when she does, the look on her face—” Lucy broke off. It wasn’t just the pain she saw in Megan, it was the reason behind it.
If Lucy hadn’t been working late that day two months ago, her mom
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