"Did he tell her why?" Bellamy asks.
"Not according to her or her notes. She said they were planning to get together later, and she figured they would talk more about it then. Obviously, he never got a chance," I say.
"He knew something. He had the same information the rest of us did. That Darren Blackwell died in that prison transport crash years ago. Why would he be worried about her looking into a potential cold case murder involving him? Unless he knew there were still people associated with Dragon lurking around,” she says.
“Or Dragon's not dead,” I say.
“How could that be?” she asks.
“I don't know. But it's something to think about. And Greg wanted to make sure I had this key in case whatever he was going to do didn't work out for him. I highly doubt Darren Blackwell was wandering around DC. His face is far too recognizable. He would have been identified immediately. But Greg was meeting somebody out on that beach. And he didn't know if he was coming back.”
“Let me know if I can look into anything for you,” she says. “I know you're really busy with the investigation in Harlan.”
“I will, thank you,” I tell her. “But don't get too excited. I highly doubt it's going to be like the last time I asked you to look into things for me, and you got to go on a vacation to Florida.”
“Hey,” she defends herself. “I got a lot of valuable information during that trip.”
“And several lovely pictures of you drinking cocktails with little umbrellas,” I say.
“Part of the job,” she says. “I was undercover as a tourist.”
“You are very convincing,” I say. “So, what are you doing for Halloween?”
“Halloween?” she asks.
“I'm ready to just get my mind off all of this. It's only a few weeks away. We should think about doing something fun.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I say.
She makes a sound that is close to a squeal, but as if she's holding it back with her teeth.
“I have so many ideas,” she whispers.
“For what?” I ask, already cringing. I love Bellamy to death, but once she gets an idea for some wild project or party or something, there is absolutely no stopping her. I’ve had to learn to give her a wide berth when she gets into event-planning mode.
“Group costumes!” she says. “Now that Eric and I are together, the two of us and you and Sam can dress up as something.”
"We should include Dean, too," I say.
"Alright. How about the guys wear all black, then you and I can wear sparkly green sweaters and skirts with ornaments on them, and we can go as the night before Christmas."
"That seems like it would require some very rigid walking procedures to keep up the theme," I point out. “Anyway, wouldn’t that be better if we were doing the Tim Burton version?”
"True," Bellamy says. "Okay, how about the Beatles?"
"There are five of us. What will Dean be?" I ask.
"...a tambourine?"
"I think we need to work on this idea-generating thing a little bit."
“All right. I'll get on that. I'm just excited to think we get to hang out soon,” she says.
“Me, too,” I say. “It's been a long couple of months.”
“I just wanted to check in with you. I actually have to go. Creagan has this super fun way of looking at work that says if he's out in the field doing an investigation, he thinks the rest of us can do three times as much work as we do when he is here at headquarters,” she says. “And I don’t even work here! I’m just hanging out in Eric’s office!”
“That I remember distinctly,” I say. "I'll talk to you soon."
Just as I'm hanging up the phone, I hear a crash near the front of the house. It's the distinct sound of breaking glass.
Chapter Nine
I pause, my hand hovering over my phone as I listen. I'm in the back of the house, set up in the small room I converted into an office. The crashing sound came from the kitchen, like the glass pane on the back-door smashing.
I get up quietly and move to the door of the office, wanting to check what's going on before I overreact. Of course I’ve left my gun in the bedroom, and that’s across the hall from where I am now. There’s no way I can get to it without drawing attention to myself. Opening the door, I step out into the hallway. This would be the point in every horror movie when the person calls out into the empty house, “Hello? Is someone there?”
Never in the history of existence has shouting something like that actually ended well. So, I don't do it. Instead, I open my phone and dial the nine and the one. That way I'm prepared but haven't called emergency responders for another incident of a squirrel throwing a rock through my window. I think the construction was to blame for making them angry.
When I get to the end of the hall, rustling in the living room catches my attention. I head in that direction, and a sudden blast of movement from the side of the room startles me. I don't have a chance to process what I'm seeing before a mass hits me, and I land on the floor. My phone lands by my hand and bounces a couple of feet away. I scramble over to it and hit the other one just before getting a hard kick to the back of my head.
Whoever kicked me either knew exactly what they were doing or didn't know at all because it wasn't enough to cause any serious damage. But it was enough to make consciousness tighten down from the corners of my eyes like a tunnel getting narrower.
I'm only out for a few seconds, it seems. The next thing I know, I feel hands grab me. As they pull me up off the floor, I turn and swing a punch.
“Hey,”
