FALLYN
“Dad,” I called out as I entered my childhood home in Weston, Massachusetts, the following day after the raid.
The smell of coffee drew me toward the kitchen in the back of the two-story, country-style home that my mom had decorated and adored.
“I’m in the sunroom,” my dad called out.
I breezed by the dining room we never used, where dust was collecting on the table and chandelier. The last time we had dinner in that room was six years ago, if my memory served me correctly. Dad, Jason, and me. Dad had cooked a turkey for Thanksgiving—or attempted to. The meat had been dry, and the stuffing tasted like stale bread, but it was the thought and effort that had made that day special.
I veered left off the breakfast nook, the sun’s rays spraying into the kitchen through the French doors, then stepped through an arched doorway and into the best place in the house.
My mom loved lounging in here, watching the birds through the wall of windows or admiring the colorful fall trees that were currently shedding their leaves.
My father flashed his hazel eyes over the rim of his gold-frame reading glasses, closing the novel in his hand. “You’re early.” A warm smile melted my heart as he picked up his coffee cup from the table beside him.
I leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek then skirted the coffee table, dropped my purse by the cushioned recliner, and shed my wool coat. “I love this room. I still feel Mom’s presence every time I come in.” I sank into the chair, inhaling the floral aroma of the bouquet of flowers on the stand in the corner.
He followed my line of sight, beaming as if he, too, was thinking about Mom. “How was traffic for a Sunday morning from Boston?”
The weight of sorrow crushed me as I recalled the day my father came to pick me up from high school, the same day my mother had died from a pulmonary embolism. I had never seen my father cry before, but that day he wept like a newborn baby.
I regarded the man I resembled right down to his thick golden-brown hair, freckles splattered around his nose, and hazel eyes. “Minimal.”
He swung his melancholy gaze to me. “I’m going to pass on the cemetery visit today. I’m feeling a little under the weather.”
Since his retirement two years ago, he seemed out of sorts. I knew Jason’s death had hit him hard. Neither of us was dealing with loss very well. At least I kept busy with my job, though Dad fished and played golf. Both sports were something Jason had liked to do. I knew Dad felt closer to Jason on the golf course or fishing on the lake.
“You do sound nasally,” I said. “A cold? Nothing serious?”
He sipped his coffee. “Change of weather always messes up my sinuses.”
“It won’t be the same without you at the cemetery, but I won’t be long. I’ll be back in time to watch the football game with you.” Cozying up by the fire in front of the TV sounded wonderful after last night. “I’ll pick up Chinese for us too.”
“There’s a bouquet in the kitchen to take with you.” He went to the cemetery every Sunday with my mom’s favorite flowers—black-eyed Susans and carnations.
I swallowed down the emotions, which always seemed to bubble to the surface whenever I came home.
He moved the book to the coffee table. “Tell me what went wrong last night.”
I titled my head. “News travels fast. Did Agent Howard call you?”
“No. The deputy director of the ATF.”
Deputy Director Malone was a nice enough man but not keen on women in the field. Gwen and I had a few choice words for Malone whenever he made a comment about allowing the men to take the lead on field ops.
“What did he tell you?” I toed off my boots and curled up in the chair for the long conversation.
If I knew my dad, he would grill me as if I was a perp. He often had whenever Jason or I had gotten into trouble as kids.
“That we might be seeing a cartel war. Do we have any idea who stole those guns?”
“Well, it wasn’t Hart. I saw how mad he was. Plus, he wouldn’t screw the hand that feeds him.”
Dad regarded me with his sharp, fatherly expression as if he was about to scold me. “So you want to go undercover? I told you many times, Fallyn, that we might never know if Jason was murdered. You know he got hooked on drugs inside.”
“And you know Jason would never take his own life and overdose on drugs.” I tried to keep my voice from cracking or sounding caustic, but I failed on both counts.
Dad removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
