For once, Megan didn’t mind being left behind while Lucy went to work. She wasn’t even resentful that she’d been relegated to the sidelines. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t worried about her mom.
Something had broken inside her mother a few months ago when she was injured. Megan had diagnosed PTSD and a reactive depression—from the way her dad acted around Lucy, she guessed he agreed. But today, Lucy was back, the confident posture, the quick thinking, piecing together almost invisible clues to come up with the answer while everyone else was still figuring out the right question to ask.
She smiled and pulled the fleece blanket tighter around her. Definitely warmer than Pittsburgh, but the wind was coming right at her here at the front of the house. After a few moments of shivering, she got to her feet, gathered the laptop and water bottle, left the package of rations, and strolled to the back of the house. Definitely less windy here.
The back yard was fenced in with gates at the drive where Megan stood and at the path leading out to the dunes—probably because it had a pool and spa. Wouldn’t want anyone wandering off the beach falling in.
She raised the latch and walked past the pool to the deck area beside the rear wall of the house. There were chairs and chaise lounges scattered around and the area was sheltered above by the overhang of the upper deck, making it much warmer than the front porch. She curled up on a lounge chair, set up the laptop on a table beside her, and snuggled under the blanket. The sound of the waves was hypnotic and there was something in the salt air that made her drowsy.
That was the problem with waiting; it was so damned boring. She leaned back, not fighting the feeling—if Dad or Mom texted the computer would alarm—and allowed her eyes to drift shut.
“Hands where I can see them,” a man’s voice sliced through the gentle sound of the surf like a cleaver.
Megan blinked as a bright light speared her vision. She couldn’t make out the man behind the light.
“Hands,” he repeated.
She slowly slid her hands out from under the blanket, holding them palms forward so he could see they were empty.
“Megan, is that you?” The light inched down just enough for her to make out Officer Gant’s face. “Where’s your mother? What are you doing here?”
Gant. Chief Hayden’s right hand man. Panic sizzled through Megan although she fought not to show it. Stay calm. Focus. That’s what Lucy would do. “How did you find me?”
“There’s an alarm on the swimming pool gate.”
Shit. Megan didn’t hold her breath—that was the worst thing to do if you might be getting ready to fight or make a run for it. Instead, she planted her feet firmly, moved the blanket aside so she wouldn’t get tangled in it, and scanned the area for possible weapons.
Nothing within reach except her laptop. Ahh… the best weapon of all. She twisted her body to face Gant, brushing her arm against the keyboard to wake the sleeping computer. Two clicks, that’s all she needed, just time enough for two clicks and she could activate the video chat app.
“Why are you here?” Gant asked taking one step toward her and stopping as if she posed a threat. “Where’s your mother?”
How much did he know? Was he in on it, working with Chief Hayden? Or just an innocent cop caught up in the chief’s web of lies?
“Thought you’d be working with the sheriff and state lab people over at the Fleming’s house,” she said.
He shifted his weight as if uncomfortable. Ah-hah, Megan thought. He knows. And he knows we know. Was that good or bad? If he was working with the Flemings and Hayden did he now realize he’d have to silence Megan as well? She just needed to distract him, two seconds, that’s all she needed. But how?
He ignored her implied accusation to glance over his shoulder, his hand falling to his weapon. “Answer me, Megan. Where’s your mother?”
Megan jerked her chin toward the drive at his back. Gant’s gaze followed as he drew his gun. She darted her hand out to the computer and clicked. Gant caught the movement and whirled back.
“Stop. Don’t move,” he ordered. Megan froze, her hand in mid-air.
The computer made the pinging sound of the video connection and Taylor’s face appeared. “Megan. What’s up?” he asked, squinting at the screen.
“There’s a police officer named Gant here,” she said, somehow managing to keep her words from tumbling over each other in her rush of relief. “He has his gun drawn and is asking about my mother.”
Gant holstered his gun and approached. “Who the hell is that?”
“That,” Megan told him, “is the FBI.”
“Special Agent Taylor. We’ve been fully briefed and the sheriff’s department and state police are on their way. Step back from Ms. Callahan, Officer Gant.”