The FBI’s Washington Field Office sits inside its own city block, a bleak, grim building that Zachary once aptly compared to a giant Lego. It’s a mile from headquarters, the sort of distance that’d be quicker to walk than to drive through the congested D.C. streets, if we didn’t always need our cars at the ready.
I make it to the building in just under the allotted twenty minutes and find my way to the counterterrorism wing, then to Scott’s cubicle. It’s in the back beside the windows, a corner spot. He’s in his chair, at his computer. When he sees me, he stands.
“Conference room,” he says curtly. He brushes past me and I follow him to a windowless room down the hall. He closes the door behind us and sits at the head of the table. I take a seat diagonally across from him.
“Okay.” There’s not a hint of friendliness on his face. “Explain.”
It’s stifling in here. I shrug off my jacket and lay it on the seat beside me. Scott watches me, unblinking. I search for what to say, what I can say, and come up empty.
“You know how serious a violation it was to access that file,” Scott says.
“I had no choice.”
“Why?”
I take a measured breath. “You come to my door. You make this accusation, and you won’t tell me a thing. I need to understand what’s happening.”
“Well, now you know.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes me coldly. “Access to targets. What does he mean by that, do you think?”
“It could mean any number of things.” I hold his gaze.
“Dammit, this isn’t a game! This is serious, Steph.”
“I get that.”
“He said access to targets.”
“I read the email,” I retort, my tone more combative than I intended.
He scowls. “Do you have any reason to believe that Zachary could be plotting an attack?”
In my mind, I see the gun, wrapped in paper, concealed in his closet. I see the email, in the case file: I have access to targets. I see Zachary shoving that little girl on the playground, staring stonily at the classmate whose face he’d just battered.
Then I see him as a little boy, that exultant smile on his face. Hugging me with all his might, when he barely reached my waist. Whispering a sleepy I love you as I tucked him in at night. I see the confusion on his face when I brought up the extremist group. His incredulous denial when I accused him of having a gun.
“No,” I tell Scott. I don’t believe it. I can’t.
“If you have any reason to suspect it—”
“He’s a good kid.”
“It’s an anti-government group, Steph. A bunch of frustrated people who hate the government. Who hate jobs like the ones we have.” Is he playing me, softening me up, so that I make a mistake? It’s what I’d do. “Don’t you think Zachary might have reason to hold a grudge?”
Chapter 14
Zachary was five when I got the long-awaited offer of employment from the FBI. The letter came in the mail, and I ripped it open outside, right next to the mailbox. Saw the embossed letterhead, the Dear Stephanie, the Congratulations. And a huge smile spread across my face. I’d waited years for this day, and it was finally here.
As I continued reading, as my eyes landed on the date in the letter, my smile disappeared. Quantico would be months in a dorm, no families allowed; I knew that. What I didn’t count on was the start date.
“There’s got to be something we can do,” I insisted, minutes later, phone held to my ear. “Maybe I could start in a later class?”
“It’s this or nothing,” answered the voice on the other end.
That afternoon I brought Zachary over to my mom’s house. He darted out to the backyard and I stayed in the kitchen with her. Sat on a barstool, watched her chop vegetables on the kitchen island, kept an eye on Zachary through the window. He picked up a stick, waved it in the air like a sword.
“I got a job offer,” I said.
She looked up, a smile lighting up her face. “That’s wonderful, Stephanie.”
“I’m going to be an FBI agent.”
The smile faded. The knife in her hand went still. “An FBI agent? Seriously?”
“Yes.” I hadn’t told her it was my goal. Hadn’t told anyone. How could I, without telling them why?
“You went to law school. You could have a great career. A stable one.”
“This is what I want to do.”
Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. I looked away, at Zachary racing across the lawn. My choice didn’t make sense to her; I knew that.
She didn’t know the whole truth about Halliday; no one did. And she didn’t know that midway through law school, I made another decision: that I wanted a career where I could stop people like him, people who abused their power, who preyed upon and victimized others. I would fight for the victims, and I would believe them.
I knew from that night that it was wrong to stay silent, to let Halliday stay in a position of power, risk exposing others to what he had done to me. And if it hadn’t been for Zachary, I told myself, I’d have done something. Come clean, finally told the truth. Taken my chances that no one would believe me, that he’d smear my reputation, that I’d become tabloid fodder.
But I couldn’t do it to Zachary. Couldn’t bring that man into our lives, couldn’t ever let my son know the ugly truth about his father.
Mom set the knife down carefully on the cutting board. “Think about Zachary. What if something happens to you?”
Her question cut through me. I was thinking of Zachary. I was always thinking of Zachary. But this is what I had to do. It was the path I’d chosen, the one I knew in my heart was right. I focused my attention on an errant sliver of carrot that had slipped off the cutting board.
“Training starts in two weeks.” I crumpled the sliver between my fingers. “I can’t bring him. Can you watch him for me?”
“For how long?”
“Four months.”
“Oh, Stephanie. You can’t be serious!”
“I know it’s a long time—”
“He starts kindergarten next month!”
“I know.” Of course I knew. Zachary and I had been talking about it endlessly. He’d made me promise him I’d be there at the bus stop on his first morning, cross my heart that he could look out and wave to me the second he found his seat. I’d be there waiting when the bus returned, I said, and we’d go get ice cream and he could tell me everything about his day. “I tried to switch the start date, but I can’t. It’s this or nothing.”
Mom frowned, about to say something. Then she picked up the knife again, turned back to the vegetables. “I’ll watch him. I’ll be there for him. And for you.” She resumed chopping, and her eyes flickered to mine, full of reproach. “Because that’s what mothers do.”
The words stung. I watched Zachary out the window. He put the stick down in the grass and pulled himself up onto one of the swings, wiggling until he was fully in the seat. “It’s just four months.”
“Just four months?” She shook her head. “And then it’ll be a career full of long nights. Of putting yourself in harm’s way. Honestly, Stephanie. I raised you to make better decisions than this.”
I blinked back tears. “This is the right decision.”
“For Zachary? Or for you?”
Anger and hurt churned inside me. What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t afford a fight, not now. Not when I needed her help. Without another word, I let myself out into the yard.
Zachary was pumping his legs, struggling to gain some momentum on the swing. He gave me a radiant grin when he saw me step outside, and it sent a torrent of emotions running through me. “Look at me, Mom!”
I smiled at him, a smile that I hoped didn’t look as heartbroken as I felt. Was my mom right? Was this a terrible mistake? How could I leave him for four endless
months?
I sat down on the swing beside him, pushed forward with my feet, let myself drift. I watched him straining to lift himself into the air, legs pumping. After a few moments, he relaxed his legs and just coasted. Shot me a satisfied smile.
“Zachary, there’s something I need to tell you,” I began. “You know how you want to be a firefighter when you grow up?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve wanted to be an FBI agent, for a really long time now.”
“What’s a gent?”
“An agent is someone who helps people. Keeps them safe. Kind of like a police officer.” He looked serious, like he was taking it all in. “I’m going to get to do that, Zachary.”
He smiled at me, and I felt my heart break.
“But I need to go to school to learn how to be an agent. I need to go stay at the school for a little while.”
The smile wobbled on his face. I had to force out the next words. “And while I do that, you’re going to stay here with Grandma.”
His eyes grew round. There was a solemnness to his face that made him look older than his years. But I had to say the rest. I had to get it all out there. “And, honey? My school starts just before yours does. Grandma will be the one to wave goodbye to the bus on your first day, okay?” It was painful to say the words. I fought back an overwhelming urge to cry.
“But you promised, Mommy.” He said it so softly I almost didn’t hear him.
“I know,” I whispered back. “I’m so sorry.”
He looked away. I watched him blink back tears. Then he started pumping his legs again, this time furiously, straining even harder, getting himself higher into the air than I’d ever seen him go. He didn’t look at me again.
My heart hurting, I watched him soar. And I pledged that if I ever again made him a promise, I would never, ever break it.
* * *
—
I give my head a shake, send the memory tumbling away. Scott’s words ring in my head.
Don’t you think Zachary might have reason to hold a grudge?
“Wouldn’t your kids have reason to hold a grudge, too?” I say. I’m not going to let Scott blame me for this. I’m not going to play defense any longer. I’m going on offense.
“Steph—”
I lean forward. “Would that make them join a terrorist group?”
“He said he has access to targets,” he persists. “I’m sorry, Steph. You know I need to open a formal investigation.”
The threat sends a chill through me. I repress a shudder. A formal investigation. A criminal case opened on my son. “Scott—you can’t do that.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Just give me a little time. Let me figure out what’s going on.”
He gives me an unflinching look, and my heart sinks. Something else is coming, something bad. I’ve done this in interviews myself—waited until just the right moment to reveal some critical piece of information, some damning evidence.
“All those days he skipped class,” Scott says evenly. “What was he doing?”
Skipping class? What’s he talking about? I try to keep my expression blank, but I’m sure I must be failing.
He picks up a pen, drops it. “You look like you don’t know about this, Steph.”
I say nothing.
“Six absences in the last two months. So many that he was given a warning.”
Is that true? Did Scott get a copy of Zachary’s school record? Is that really what it says?
“Did you know?” he presses.
“No,” I answer, because it’s the truth, because I’m sure Scott can read it on my face.
“That’s interesting. Because a copy of the disciplinary report went home for parental acknowledgment. And your signature is on it.”
Zachary skipped class, forged my signature. Lied. I don’t know what to say, what to think.
“You don’t know him as well as you think you do, do you, Steph?”
Chapter 15
Zachary’s high school is like a miniature college campus, a beautiful place with brick buildings and rolling lawns shaded by tall trees. After the incidents in middle school—all those squabbles and fights—I thought a fresh start might help. Separation from the kids he’d been associating with. So private school it was. And it has always seemed like the right decision: the arguments and fights stopped, and his interest in school grew. But had he gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd all over again?
I’ve found an empty spot facing his car—the battered old Ford Taurus that used to be mine—and I’m sitting in my car, waiting. The sunshade is up on the dash, bent back enough on one side to let me peer through the windshield without being seen. There’s no sun to block; the sky is gray, and wind howls through the sprawling parking lot. The air outside is frigid, and the campus is quiet. The kids are all in class, sheltered from the cold.
I came straight from Scott’s office. His words shook me, because I know they’re true. I don’t know Zachary as well as I thought I did. If the last two days have made anything clear, it’s that. I don’t know what my son does with his time. Or who he’s spending it with.
But maybe it’s about to become clear. In my mind I picture those texts, the ones with John Doe.
3:30 tomorrow?
I’ll be there.
I can’t stop thinking about that gun, now locked away in my office safe. About Zachary’s response when I brought it up. Genuine confusion. The same look he had when I brought up FSM, the extremist group.
But what if he is just a good actor? A superb liar?
I still think the natural reaction would have been to check to see if the gun was still there. To glance in the direction of the closet, at the very least. He’s not that good, is he? He’s a kid, for God’s sake. A good kid.
Isn’t he?
The fact of the matter is, he’s hiding something. That much I know. And this John Doe—I have a feeling he’s somehow involved.
I raise my fingers to my temples, try to rub away the beginnings of a headache. Scott’s face comes into my mind, and his voice, unbidden.
Don’t you think Zachary might have reason to hold a grudge?
* * *
—
I drew Chicago as my first post. Chicago. Halliday’s hometown. It was like the universe was playing some sort of cruel joke.
I thought about saying no. Getting out. My mom was right; I could still get a job at a law firm. Settle down in St. Louis. Stay out of Halliday’s world, once and for all.
But then he’d win. I’d be giving up, giving in, once again. Letting Halliday win.
So Zachary and I picked up and moved. My mom kept reminding me it was a mistake, leaving midway through kindergarten. That Zachary would suffer. But this was something I had to do.
We had no family in Chicago. No support system. I found a daycare center, the one with the longest hours in the area. A few babysitters I could call on, too. One was a woman, Patty, a few streets away who’d let me drop Zachary off when I got called out in the middle of the night. When we first arrived in the city, I thought it’d be a rare occurrence. It quickly became routine.
I was assigned to organized crime, investigating the Chicago Mafia. To me, it felt like the perfect assignment—potentially high profile, potentially meaningful. A chance to get some genuinely bad guys off the streets. My first week on the job, I realized it was the universe’s cruel joke number two.
“Mob runs this town,” said my training agent, Nicholson. “And there’s not much we can do about it.”
“Come on,” I protested. It seemed like the opposite of everything I’d learned at Quantico, everything I believed to be true.
He shook his head. “Damned crooked politicians. Mob pays ’em off. That senator, Halliday—he’s the worst.”
It felt like
time stopped. I wasn’t expecting to hear that name, not here, not now. “Halliday?”
“Have you ever seen how much cash that guy raises?”
Anger started to run through my veins, like ice. “So why haven’t we done something about it?”
“It’s laundered well.”
“Come on, Nicholson. If you know what’s happening…”
“Like I said, they run this town.”
“So do something about it.”
He shot me a crooked grin. “You’re on it now, Maddox. You do something about it.”
I didn’t have to, of course. Could have bided my time, like Nicholson, like the others. Worked my nine-to-five, laid low, waited to be transferred to something else.
But I wasn’t about to let Halliday win, not again.
Nine-to-five became seven-to-eight. Longer, when I had to. Lord knows there was plenty of work piled up. Plenty to do, for someone willing to do it. And I was. I was determined to do it.
After months of working nearly 24/7, I’d developed a few leads into the underworld. Didn’t seem like much, considering the time I’d devoted to it, but it was more than the division had had in years.
I ran each one down thoroughly, monitoring communications, building a solid case. Took over a wall in the field office, tacked up headshots of all my targets. Ran masking tape between them, tracking their connections. Before long, the wall was full.
By the time I’d been in Chicago a year, I had the biggest case in the division, one that was being closely tracked even at headquarters. Conspiracy, corruption, the works.
I was considered a rising star in the Bureau, someone with an incredibly bright future. And I barely saw Zachary anymore. An hour a day, maybe two. I wanted desperately to spend more time with him, but every agent in the division was working shifts around the clock to support this case. My case. It’s not like I could take a break when everyone else was working so hard.
Zachary spent most of his evenings at daycare, many of his nights at Patty’s. Sometimes, if I had to be at work before dawn, I’d carry him to the car in the middle of the night, pajama-clad and asleep, and drive him to Patty’s, deposit him, dozing, in her arms. I hated it, but what else was I supposed to do?
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