Ryan pulled up to his parents’ house, secured the convertible top of his prized new classic sports car—a rally red nineteen-sixty-seven Corvette 427—and cut the engine. He’d purposely driven to work and now to Woodlawn. Too restless to deal with hours of mass transit, he’d chosen to shorten his commute and ease his tension by zooming up to the Bronx, top down, so he could feel the wind in his hair and think.
He’d done a chunk of research probing Shane’s NYPD archived cases, flagging all those that smacked of possible retaliation by the guilty party or parties. He’d then gratefully turned the project over to Yoda for analysis. At nine o’clock on the dot, he’d made his call to Scott Security, in an attempt to quickly locate one or more of Caitlin’s colleagues. He did little to no damage, since, as Casey had suspected, only a skeletal staff was in. Plus, it was hard to ask questions without supplying information. So, when he finally reached someone in Caitlin’s department, Lauren Robbins, he kept it simple, saying that he was Caitlin’s cousin and that he and one of her good friends were trying hard to reach her, and had hoped they’d find her at work. Thankfully, Lauren had yet to see the FBI’s press release on Shane’s murder and on Caitlin being a person of interest. Nor had the Bureau yet contacted her.
Nevertheless, she was very reserved and more than a little reticent about having a personal discussion with him. He knew in his gut that she’d be more likely to talk to another woman—especially one as savvy as Casey. So he’d cut the conversation short, thanked her for her time, and hung up.
He’d then immediately passed her name along to Casey, who’d follow up in a heartbeat and play the part of Caitlin’s close friend, admitting she was worried about Caitlin since she’d been very anxious the past week or two. That would be enough. Lauren would doubtless open up to Casey—almost everyone did. One name might grow to more. And Casey would work her behavioral magic to find out anything and everything about Caitlin’s current state of mind.
As for Ryan—enough was enough.
He had to get out of there—not only his lair, but the whole brownstone. His concentration had totally deteriorated, and his mind kept going to Kennedy, wondering how she was holding up. Even though he’d made an early morning check-in call to his mom, he felt compelled to be there in person.
Now, he folded his arms over the steering wheel and took some deep breaths, readying himself to go inside and be strong.
As prepared as he could ever be, he headed up the walkway.
His mother greeted him at the door.
“You look so tired,” she said, studying Ryan’s face. “Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Not a wink,” he replied. “How about you? You look pretty wiped out, yourself.”
“I suppose I do,” his mother replied, massaging her temples.
Concern knit Ryan’s brows. He knew that his mother would push herself beyond her limits when it came to family. “Mom, you’ve got to take care of yourself. I’ll watch Kennedy for a while. You take a nap.”
“Your dad offered the same. We’ll see.”
Ryan didn’t push, not yet. “When I called earlier this morning, you told me that Kennedy was out cold.”
Maureen sighed. “She had a rough night. She was up every couple of hours when the memories resurfaced. Once they did, she’d get hysterical, sobbing that her daddy was dead and calling for her mommy. It broke my heart. Dad took over for me several times. But whenever Kennedy woke up, she wanted only me.”
Ryan felt a knife twist in his gut as he, once again, thought about the nightmare Kennedy was living through. “That’s no surprise,” he murmured. “You’re the emotional nucleus of the family.”
“As it should be.”
Ryan didn’t dispute that fact. “So she conked out earlier this morning?”
His mother nodded. “Around nine-thirty. Right before you called. It’s the first real sleep she’s gotten, the poor baby.”
Ryan glanced at the stairs. “She’s still asleep?”
“Yes. And I’m glad. It gives me a chance to talk to you alone.” Maureen led Ryan into the living room, where he sat on the sofa, brows drawn.
“Has something else happened? Or is there any news?”
Maureen lowered herself into an arm chair. “Nothing like that. I just wanted to fill you in on my call with Dr. Abel this morning.”
“Did she speak with Kennedy?”
Maureen shook her head. “Kennedy was asleep. I told Dr. Abel that I’d make sure Kennedy knew she could call her whenever she needed to. In the interim, Dr. Abel passed along recommendations for dealing with Kennedy’s grief.” A frown. “There’s an FBI employee assistance program that I’m able to access. I absorbed as much about it as I could. It offer specific kinds of counseling—I think it’s online. But I’m still a little unsure.”
Ryan jumped right on that. “I’ll talk to Marc and Patrick at the office. They’re both former FBI. One of them will explain anything you need. Hands on, if necessary, coming here and talking you through the process. We’ll introduce him to Kennedy as my friend from work. They’re both great with kids, so no worries there. No need to even mention law enforcement.”
“Good.” Maureen looked utterly relieved. “Thank them in advance for me. There’s only so much of Dr. Abel’s time that I feel comfortable taking up.”
“What else did she suggest?” Ryan asked.
“She thinks we should encourage Kennedy to keep a journal of her thoughts. It will give her an emotional outlet. Also, possible grief counseling, either by a priest or another viable counselor. Kennedy can also access an FBI chat room, if posting there would give her some relief.” Maureen sighed. “Dr. Abel is being tremendously supportive, not only of Kennedy, but of me. I’m moving blindly through this process, so I need as much professional guidance as I can get.”
