“I’m not delusional, Aaron. I know he’s nearly six feet tall. Deo’s not a little kid to anyone but me. But I held him when he cried. When he was a little kid. I promised him I’d keep the monsters away. That I wouldn’t let anyone else hurt him. I promised. And now—” I stop and pull in several deep breaths. I don’t want to lose it again like I did this morning. “It makes me so angry!”
“I can tell. And I’d feel the same way if someone had Taylor. But you’re going to wear yourself out at the very time you need to be strong. Eat something. Sleep if you can. Turn on the TV. Read a book. Try to take your mind somewhere else. I know you can’t, not really, but you need to try or you’re going to make yourself crazy.”
So . . . I try. When it becomes clear that the TV, even with its bazillion channels, isn’t going to hold my attention, we resort to some of the board games stashed on the hallway bookshelves. Trivial Pursuit is a total joke—Aaron quickly discovers it’s not the best game to play against someone with nine or more sets of random knowledge. We play one round of Aggravation, which lives up to its name but gives my mind way too much time to wander.
Aaron goes over to the window and pulls back the blinds a bit. He watches for a few seconds, looking concerned. I join him, but the street seems quiet. The only movement I see is someone on a bike at the far end of Atlantic Avenue.
“Is someone out there?”
“No. Just thinking.” He lets go of the blind. “I’m going to make some coffee.”
I hear him moving things around in the pantry as I go back to the game shelf, hoping to find a Scrabble board. With Emily’s mad crossword skills at my disposal, I doubt it’s any more fair to Aaron than Trivial Pursuit, but it would be much more likely to distract me. My search comes up empty, however . . . It seems to be the only family staple that no one bothered to stock.
“Instant okay?” he asks, leaning around the pantry door. He’s holding up two tins of the powdery stuff that’s at least as much sugar as coffee, and his expression suggests that it’s really not okay with him.
I’d rather shoot caffeine directly into my bloodstream than drink that stuff, but I nod. “If that’s the only option, then, sure.”
“Suisse Mocha or French Vanilla?”
I opt for the chocolate version, and when he returns with the alleged coffee, I tell him, “This isn’t working. I need to do something constructive. The other day—” I shake my head, realizing that it’s been less than twenty-four hours. “Yesterday, at the townhouse. You said you think this program at Fort Meade is responsible for the things you and Taylor are able to do. And even if you didn’t come out and say it, I’m guessing you think the program—or Cregg, or someone else involved with it—had something to do with your dad’s death.”
He nods once. “I’m positive about that last part. Whatever it may have looked like, Dad didn’t commit suicide. And Molly’s information about Cregg was the missing piece of that puzzle.”
I feel incredibly stupid. That hadn’t even occurred to me. “You think Graham Cregg made your dad step in front of that truck?”
“I do.”
“But . . . why do you think Cregg wanted him dead?”
“They were trying to restart whatever they were doing before. Maybe Dad was going to blow the whistle.”
“What else do you know about Cregg? And the company he runs—what’s it called again?”
“He’s on the board of directors for Decathlon Services Group. They’re a government contractor.” Aaron gives a humorless laugh. “And I’ve read pretty much everything there is to know about DSG that’s in the public record over the past few years. It’s an umbrella organization with lots of small companies involved in every aspect of military operations that can be contracted out—which, these days, means pretty much everything. Cregg generally doesn’t get involved in the day-to-day operations of DSG. From what I can tell, he shows up at meetings and that’s about it. But we believe he’s much more hands-on when it comes to one of the subsidiary groups, Python Diagnostic. He’s CEO of that one.”
“Python. That’s what Daniel said last night. When we were coming out of the police station.”
“Yeah. We’d just gotten him up to speed after his time in the military. I thought he might actually be useful in piecing some of this together—” He stops and runs one hand through his hair. “I’m doing it again. Sorry.”
“My fault. If I need to refer to him from now on, I’ll just say He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”
That earns me a full smile. He has a really nice smile.
“So . . . what exactly does this Python Diagnostic do?”
“Damn good question. The only information I’ve been able to get is that they handle human resources and staffing, but DSG has a second group that handles that, so I’d guess the description is a cover. Then there was an article in the Guardian a few years back. A woman claimed Python had something to do with the disappearance of her husband. I tried to follow up with her, because her husband was a celebrity psychic. Erik Bell. Had his own TV show for a while—”