Page 29 of Trap ’N’ Trace

“It’s an FBI thing. We like to take charge.”

“Apparently.” Her grin broadened, making him feel slightly less shitty.

He gave her his agency email address and cell phone number, so she’d have it plugged into her phone. “And send me a text so I have your number.”

“Again with the orders.”

“Hey.” He braked at a stop sign and twisted in his seat to face her. “I’m doing this to protect you.”

Her smile faded, and she gave him a subtle nod of acceptance. “I know.”

“Good.” He nodded back. It was important to him that she understood how seriously he took his job, and that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

Two minutes later, they pulled alongside a 1970s tract house that looked the same as every other one on the street. Several cars were parked in front of the place, including a marked patrol unit.

There’d been no such support for him when he’d found his mother—his only living relative—unmoving on that ratty sofa. She’d been twenty-six when she died and left him alone.

“Ready?” He shrugged into a black fleece vest to cover his weapon.

“Yes.” After taking a deep breath, she opened the door and got out.

Remy watched him, waiting for a sign that she was coming with them.

“Not this time, girl.” He lowered one of the windows so his dog could get some fresh air, then gave her a quick scruff on the head and got out of the vehicle. Remy was accustomed to remaining behind, but that didn’t stop her from uttering a sad little whine.

Kat was already at the top step in front of the house. She pressed the bell, and a few moments later the door opened. A forty-ish man stood in the doorway, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Kat, thank you for coming.” He opened his arms and embraced her tightly.

They stood that way for several seconds, wordlessly expressing their grief.

Kat pulled away, clasping the man’s hands in hers. “Michael, I’m so sorry,” she said in a shaky voice. “I feel responsible, and I—”

“It’s not your fault,” Michael said.

She swallowed repeatedly, valiantly trying to hold her emotions in check, and that’s when it hit him. No way was this an act. She really cared about everyone who worked for her. All this time he’d assumed this visit to Amy’s family was a required aspect of the courtesy and protocol she took to an art form. I really am a judgmental dick.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dayne said. “May we come in?” He urged Kat into the house. The last thing he wanted was her standing in an open doorway.

“Forgive me,” she said as they moved inside. “This is Special Agent Andrews with the FBI. He’s investigating Amy’s…murder.” Kat momentarily squeezed her eyes shut.

Several people standing in the kitchen, along with an older couple in the living room, watched them.

Michael closed the door, narrowing his eyes on Dayne. “Why is the FBI involved?”

Over Michael’s shoulder, two teenage boys with features similar to their father’s eyed him solemnly from the living room.

“There may be a connection between your wife’s murder and the murder of a retired FBI agent.”

“What possible connection could there be?” Michael’s brows furrowed.

Dayne glanced at Kat, not wanting to publicly voice his opinion that she was the connection. Outing that information wouldn’t bring the man’s wife back, and it would do nothing to ease his family’s pain.

“We’re not sure yet, but we’re working with the Orangetown PD to investigate every possible lead. We’ll find out who did this. I promise.”

The man stared at him a moment longer, before blinking rapidly and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Kat rested her hand on Michael’s shoulder, rubbing it gently. “How are the boys holding up?”