She saved the document without adding anything else. Maybe this was a chapter she couldn't write, at least not yet. Maybe some memories needed to stay in the past, acknowledged but not examined too closely.
She could hear Allen reading to Michael upstairs, his voice carrying through the ceiling in the rhythmic cadence of a bedtime story. The Bach concerto had ended, and the playlist had moved on to something by Vivaldi. Kate closed her laptop and picked up her tea, cradling the warm cup between her hands.
The project had seemed like a good idea when she'd started it. A way to preserve important experiences, to make sense of a career that had defined most of her adult life. But now she wondered if she was making a mistake. Dredging up these old cases meant reliving them, feeling again what she'd felt the first time. The fear, the anger, the helplessness of arriving too late or missing crucial details until it was almost too late.
She'd survived her career by learning to move forward, to close one case and open the next without dwelling too much on what she couldn't change. Writing a memoir meant doing the opposite, sitting with those memories and forcing herself toexamine them in detail. Kate wasn't sure she had the emotional stamina for that kind of excavation.
By the time Allen came downstairs, Kate had finished her tea and was staring at the dark window, seeing her own reflection in the glass. He appeared in the doorway, looking tired but content.
"Michael's out," he said. "Barely made it through three pages before his eyes closed."
"Good." Kate stood and stretched, feeling the stiffness in her shoulders from sitting too long. "How was bath time?"
"Splashy. I think more water ended up on me than on him." Allen smiled and gestured toward the laptop. "Making progress?"
"Not really. Just adding some notes. I may not have the writing gene in me."
“Eh, you’ll figure it out.”
They headed upstairs together, moving through the familiar motions of getting ready for bed. Kate changed into pajamas while Allen checked that all the doors were locked. They met in the bedroom, where Kate had already turned down the covers and set her book on the nightstand.
Allen climbed into bed first, settling against the pillows with his own book, a thriller he'd been working through for the past week. Kate got in beside him and picked up her novel, a mystery she'd started three days ago and was already halfway through. Reading before bed had become their routine, a quiet half hour together before turning off the lights.
But tonight Kate found herself reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing any of it. The words on the page kept blurring, her attention drifting back to the document she'd left open on her laptop downstairs. That single sentence sitting there, incomplete and insufficient.
She turned a page without really seeing it, her eyes moving across the text but her mind elsewhere. The Harriman casewasn't even one of the worst she'd worked. There had been others, cases with higher body counts or more elaborate crimes. But it had been the first, the one that had cracked open her understanding of what human beings were capable of doing to each other.
She tried to return to her book, managing a few more pages before her concentration gave out completely. Beside her, Allen had already set his book aside and was starting to drift off, his breathing growing slower and more regular.
Kate closed her book and turned off her bedside lamp, settling into the darkness. But sleep felt distant, her thoughts still circling around the question she'd been avoiding all evening. Was this memoir project a mistake? Was she opening doors that should stay closed, inviting old nightmares back into her life when she'd finally found some peace?
She didn't have an answer. Not tonight, anyway. Kate closed her eyes and listened to Allen breathing beside her, using the sound as an anchor against the memories that wanted to surface. Eventually, she drifted into an uneasy sleep with thoughts about tomorrow’s meeting with DeMarco on her mind.
CHAPTER THREE
The Richmond field office looked and felt the same as it had for the past decade, though Kate had only visited twice since her official retirement. The security checkpoint at the entrance was the same, as was the elevator that moved too slowly, as were the hallways with their neutral carpeting and generic artwork on the walls. Everything was familiar in that institutional way that made it feel both welcoming and slightly impersonal.
Kate signed in at the front desk and took the visitor badge the receptionist offered. She'd been here so many times over the years that the building felt like a second home, but the badge reminded her that she was technically a guest now—a consultant who came and went rather than someone who belonged to the daily operations.
DeMarco's office was on the fourth floor, at the end of a corridor that housed the senior supervisory staff. Kate had been inside once before, shortly after DeMarco's promotion, but she still paused at the doorway to take it in. The space was larger than she'd remembered, with windows that actually opened and furniture that looked like it had been selected rather than assigned. DeMarco had added personal touches over the past months: framed commendations on one wall, a small bookshelf with professional publications and a few novels, a plant on the windowsill that appeared to be thriving.
DeMarco stood when Kate entered, coming around from behind her desk with a genuine smile. She wore a charcoal suit that looked professionally tailored, her dark hair pulled back in a way that managed to be both polished and practical. The transformation from field agent to supervisory role had suited her. She carried herself with a confidence that went beyond what Kate remembered from their years working together, anauthority that seemed natural rather than forced. With DeMarco there had been no nervous period at the start. She’d stepped right into the role, and she’d filled it well.
"Kate, thanks for coming in," DeMarco said, gesturing to the chairs arranged in front of her desk. "Can I get you coffee or anything?"
"I'm good, thanks." Kate settled into one of the chairs, noting how much more comfortable it was than standard government issue. "This office really does fit you. I know I said that last time, but it's even more true now that you've had time to make it your own."
"It's still weird sometimes," DeMarco admitted, returning to her own chair. "I spent so many years thinking about getting out in the field that sitting behind a desk felt wrong at first. But I'm getting used to it."
"How's the team?"
"Solid, mostly. We've got a good mix of experience levels, and the case load has been manageable." DeMarco paused, her expression shifting slightly. "Though that's actually part of why I asked you to come in, like I said yesterday."
Kate took a seat and nodded. "Ah yes, the mentor role," she said with a joking tone. “What young, nubile minds would you have me shape?”
DeMarco laughed as she reclaimed her own seat behind the desk. “Her name is Erica Sloane. She transferred in from Chicago about three weeks ago." DeMarco pulled up something on her computer, scrolling briefly before looking back at Kate. "Her file is impressive on paper. Four years with the Bureau, solid arrest record, good evaluations from her supervisors in Chicago. But there's more to the story than what's written down."
"There usually is."
