“You called this guy?” Bruce said, looking up from the page where Pete’s handwriting scrawled meet Brad @ 10 – fish market. There were other names scattered throughout his notes, but the dates didn’t match.
Bruce slid onto the picnic bench and flipped through the pages.
“I’m not sure it’s important,” Cassidy said, leaning her back against the edge of the sink. “But I remember Pete was thinking about what he wanted to do next, after the book. He was still torn up about those girls he’d seen in Sicily.”
“The ones brought in from Africa?”
Cassidy nodded. “He couldn’t get an editor to touch that story.”
“Smart,” Bruce said, giving her a look.
Cassidy frowned. Bruce was probably right, but if he’d been allowed to research that story, would he have never stumbled into the one that got him killed?
“Does his name ring a bell?”
Cassidy closed her eyes for a moment, sifting through the fragments of conversation that still lived in her mind. So many of her memories had faded since those horrible days after Pete’s death. Plenty were lost forever, either from her dangerous escape of mixing Xanax with alcohol, or because her brain was trying to protect itself from the ache.
She remembered an afternoon of picking blackberries, the sun hot on her shoulders while Pete shared his ideas. He had so many ideas. She had just returned from a grueling week of field work and the joy of being back home with him had created a strong memory.
And then her stepbrother, Reeve, had visited.
“Ugh,” Cassidy breathed, her voice shaky.
Bruce’s eyes sharpened. “What?”
She shook her head, willing the terrifying images of Reeve going off the rails to fade. “I just remember Pete telling me how he met that guy in San Francisco one night, with Quinn. They were out scoping the competition. He had a story he wanted help with, or something. Pete was excited.”
“But this Brad person hasn’t called you back?”
Cassidy shook her head.
“What did you say in your message?” Bruce asked, leaning back, a serious glint in his eyes.
“I told him my name and that I was Pete’s…” Cassidy took a breath for bravery “…fiancé.”
Bruce groaned. “Okay, from now on, no more freelancing.” He placed his hands on his hips. “I mean it, Cassidy.”
Cassidy hugged herself tighter and sighed. “Okay.”
“We have no idea how deep the network goes, who we can trust.”
“Right,” Cassidy whispered as the walls slowly pressed in on her. She glanced around her kitchen—two moving boxes still to go—the too-big couch, the empty fridge.
Bruce stood and approached her just as she caught the tear threatening to leak from the corner of her eye. “Hey, we’re going to get these guys.”
Cassidy nodded; the emotions she’d been bottling up threatened to break free. Since that moment in Quinn’s apartment, she had forced everything down, running to the safety and escape of her field work in Hawaii, hoping that while she was away, everything could return to normal. Calling Brad had been stupid. Why couldn’t she just leave it alone?
Bruce touched her shoulder gently and ducked to catch her gaze. “You going to be okay tonight?” he asked.
Cassidy swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yeah,” she replied.
“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll pick you up for the flight at five.” Bruce returned to the table. “Can I take this?” he asked, holding up the notebook.
A tug of anguish pulled at her. “Of course.”
Bruce pocketed the notebook, then the two of them walked toward the front door. “I’m going to check in with our operations and follow some leads.”
“Does that mean you’re going to investigate Pete’s death?” she asked as Bruce reached for the doorknob.
“If it’s tied to the illegal trafficking, then yes,” Bruce said. “But if it’s an isolated crime, then that would be handled by local law enforcement.”
“Can you connect Pete’s death with Lars’?”
Bruce looked pensive for a moment. “We’ll need to look into that, but Cassidy, I can’t promise anything. Skid marks aren’t exactly a smoking gun.”
Cassidy hugged herself tighter against the sudden image of the two crash sites that had blended together in her mind since watching that news program in Quinn’s apartment.
“Sorry,” Bruce sighed. “I know this isn’t easy.”
A shiver of emotion washed through her, sending her pulse thumping into her temples.
“We’ll do everything we can, okay?”
Cassidy watched him step through the door and close it softly behind him. Though she believed him, what if the secrets surrounding Pete were buried too deep and the truth stayed hidden?
“It’s so good to see you,” Mark said, pulling her into a long, soft hug.
It took her a moment to react; hopefully Mark didn’t notice. He released her, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes, and escorted her down the hallway to a door that led to the TV studio. At the end of the room stood two empty couches on a brightly lit stage. Cameras waited in the shadows, manned by a handful of people getting them ready.
“I’ll take you to makeup,” Mark said, leading her through the room to another door.
After googling “what to wear for a TV interview,” she had skimmed the long list of dos and don’ts: don’t wear white, or stripes, or checks, or dangly earrings, or a dark suit unless you want to look like a hit man, or a short skirt unless you want people to look at your legs and not listen to your message. She had chosen what felt like the safest option, a pair of navy-blue pants with a soft blue button-down shirt, her nicest shoes, and knee-length socks so as to not show her ankle if she should happen to cross her legs. The article said no jewelry, but she wore a delicate gold chain with a four-leaf-clover pendant for courage, a gift from her father and the only item her stepbrother, Reeve, hadn’t stolen for drug money.
A woman leaning against a brightly lit desk, scrolling on her phone, was waiting.
“You’ll be in good hands with Melody,” Mark said, smiling
