“In your view, is there any chance that Walker is somehow involved with Lara’s disappearance—and Congressman Hubbard’s death?” Adam asked, frowning.
“I don’t know what he might be involved in. But I agree with you—something isn’t quite right,” Matt said. “And it all bears investigating. If we could find Lara—or discover just what happened after she left the congressman’s office—I think we’d learn something.”
“What about the murdered women?” Adam asked.
“Not sure. At this point they don’t appear to be connected. That is, unless we find...” He paused, glancing at Meg. “Unless we find Lara Mayhew.”
Ripped to pieces and floating in the river, Meg thought.
Adam turned to her. “We’ll be in touch, tell you what direction we plan to go in, Meg. Go home now and try to get some sleep. Matt, would you see her out?”
“Adam, thanks, but I don’t need to be seen out. Agent Bosworth, have a good evening.” She nodded politely. Then she walked out, determined to leave under her own steam.
An official sticker had been placed on her car. She left it where it was.
For a moment, she thought Matt had followed her out, after all. She looked over her shoulder; he hadn’t.
She got into her car and started home, then decided to buy some groceries before arriving at Quantico. Normally, she would’ve gone to a store on the base, but it would be faster to stop before she got there. All she wanted was to be at home, by herself.
There was a gas station on the way, which carried coffee and cereal and milk. Maybe not the freshest in the city, but it would do.
Meg parked her car, locking it.
Lara’s journal was in the car and she didn’t want anything stolen while she was inside—especially that.
Meg headed in and made her purchases and came back to the car. She heard footsteps behind her; they sounded furtive.
One hand on the Glock at her waist, she spun around.
There was no one following her. She saw a shaggy-haired man filling his tank. A woman with a child was exiting the gas station store.
She saw no one else.
Still, when she got back into her car, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed—and watched.
She stopped at the security point and produced her credentials while the guards on duty swept her car, a measure that was always taken. Driving back, she parked and hurried in, waving to a few friends in the lounge.
“Meg, hey, Meg! Come on down, talk, play. Where ya been?” Ricky Grant said loudly.
“Tomorrow!” she promised. “I’m absolutely exhausted!”
She fled before anyone else could call her.
Once in her room she closed the door. And locked it. She slipped off her jacket and removed her Glock and the small holster she kept it in, setting both on her bedside table. Then she kicked off her shoes and jumped on the bed, instantly digging into her tote bag for Lara’s journal.
But she couldn’t concentrate. She found herself looking at her door every few seconds. Silly—her classmates were still down in the lounge; it couldn’t have been one of them.
Was she paranoid? Had Lara been paranoid?
She had to keep it together. Adam Harrison had almost magically brought her into his special unit, so she needed to be responsible and capable.
She was getting help on the situation with Lara, and she was grateful for that.
She was even grateful to Special Agent Bosworth.
She caught herself wondering about the man. He betrayed so little. In his demeanor, his behavior, he seemed so...self-contained. And so contradictory. He could act like a dictator—and then turn around and support her when she least expected it.
She didn’t understand why he was so suspicious of Walker, why he suspected Walker might’ve had something to do with Hubbard’s death. Her primary concern was to find out what had happened to Lara!
But what if those two things were somehow related?
And yet it didn’t make sense. Everything about Hubbard’s death had been in the media. The man had been dearly loved by many and practically hailed as the new messiah. He hadn’t bent to pressure from any group. His followers had labeled him “the commonsense candidate.”
Meg realized that she was as exhausted as she’d claimed to be. It was early—only about 8:00 p.m. She was starving but didn’t feel like going back downstairs and winding up in some conversation or other. The energy bars she’d just purchased would be her dinner.
As she ate, she browsed the internet for up-to-the-minute news, but there was nothing she didn’t already know.
She got ready for bed, skipping her usual shower, and crawled in. She decided she couldn’t take any more bad news—not that night. But she was afraid another body might have been found, so she searched until she found a podcast showing the most recent local news.
No more bodies. Not yet.
She went on a classic movie site and let an old adventure movie with Errol Flynn play. Despite herself, she thought about the charm of Errol Flynn’s character—and then about the FBI agent with whom she’d spent the day.