Reston, Virginia

Tully hoped his gut instinct was wrong. He hoped he was being an overprotective father who was simply overreacting. That’s what he kept telling himself, yet before he left the morgue he made a copy of Virginia Brier’s driver’s license photo and stuck it in his back pocket.

He had called Emma earlier to let her know he wouldn’t be home until later, but if she wanted to wait for dinner, he’d pick up a pizza. He was pleased when she asked for lots of pepperoni on her side. At least they would be sharing a meal together, perhaps one they could both enjoy. Between the two of them, their culinary skills didn’t extend much beyond grilled cheese sandwiches with soup. Sometimes when Tully was feeling a bit adventurous he’d throw a couple of chunks of meat on the grill. Unfortunately, he had never been able to figure out how to keep it from becoming a shrunken, charred hockey puck, and there wasn’t much treat in that.

Their small two-bedroom bungalow in Reston, Virginia, was a far cry from the two-story colonial they’d lived in in Cleveland. Caroline had insisted on keeping the house, and now Tully wondered if Emma would ever want to come back here after spending Thanksgiving vacation in her old room. Only recently had this house begun to feel like home, though it had been almost a year since they’d made the move. No matter how much he complained about this parenting stuff, he couldn’t imagine what this house, the move, the new town and new job—what any of it would have been like without Emma.

Thanks to his daughter, the house didn’t have that bachelor look or smell to it, though, as Tully weaved his way through the living room clutter to the kitchen clutter, he wondered if there was a difference between bachelor clutter and teenager clutter. Maybe what he liked was having some feminine things around, even if the pink lava lamp on the bookcase, the purple Rollerblades sticking out from under the sofa or the smiley-face magnets on the refrigerator were not his style.

“Hey, Dad.” As he stepped through the front door Emma appeared. He didn’t kid himself. It was the power of pizza that drew her, not his lovable presence.

“Hi, sweat pea.” He kissed her cheek, a gesture she tolerated only when they were alone.

She wore her headphones wrapped around her neck, a compromise that had taken much drilling and constant reminders, but was well worth it, although he could still hear the music blaring. The music, however, he couldn’t complain about, since he still enjoyed some head-banging rock ’n’ roll once in a while, only in the form of the Rolling Stones or the Doors.

Emma got out the paper plates and plastic cups that they had agreed long ago would be part of any take-out treat. What was the use of having someone else prepare the meal if you still had to wash dishes? As he scooped up pieces of pizza and watched her pour their Pepsis, he wondered when would be a good time to broach the subject about the dead girl.

“Kitchen or living room?” she asked, picking up her plate and cup.

“Living room, but no TV.”

“Okay.”

He followed her into the living room, and when she decided to sit on the floor, he joined her despite his thigh still being a bit tender. It reminded him that Agent O’Dell never once mentioned or complained about her scar, a memento from the legendary serial killer Albert Stucky. Although he had never seen it, Tully knew from rumors that the scar crossed the length of her abdomen, as if the man had tried to gut her. Now he and O’Dell had something in common. Tully had a scar of his own, a constant reminder of the bullet Albert Stucky had put into him last spring as he and O’Dell tried to recapture him.

The bullet had caused some damage, but he refused to let it stop him from his daily ritual run. Lately he hated to admit that it qualified more as jogging than running. That one bullet had messed up a lot of things, including his ability to sit cross-legged on the floor without feeling the muscles sting and pinch. There were some things worth a little pain, and having pizza on the floor with his daughter was one of them.

“Mom called,” Emma said as if it were an everyday occurrence. “She said she talked to you about Thanksgiving and that you were cool with everything.”

He clenched his jaw. He wasn’t cool with everything, but then Emma didn’t need to know that. He watched her swipe a strand of long blond hair from her face to keep it away from the strings of cheese that hung from the pizza slice.

“Are you cool about spending Thanksgiving in Cleveland?” he asked.

“I guess.”

It seemed like a typical Emma response, a hint of indifference mixed with that you’d-never-understand-anyway shrug of the shoulders. He wished someone had told him long ago that he’d need a degree in psychology to be a parent of a teenager. Maybe that’s why he enjoyed his job. Figuring out serial killers seemed like a piece of cake compared to figuring out teenage girls.

“If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.” He gulped his Pepsi, trying to replicate the art of indifference that his daughter seemed to have perfected.

“She’s got it all planned and stuff.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I just hope she didn’t invite him over.”

Tully wasn’t sure who the new “him” was in his ex-wife’s life. Maybe he didn’t want to know. There had been several since their divorce.

“You have to understand, Emma, if your mom has someone new in her life, she’s probably gonna want to include him for Thanksgiving.”

Jeez! He couldn’t believe he was defending Caroline’s right to screw yet another guy. Just the thought made him angry, or worse, lose his appetite. Two years ago his wife decided one day that she was no longer in love with him, that the passion in their marriage was gone and that she needed to move on. Nothing better to destroy a guy’s ego than to have his wife tell him she needed to move on and away from his passionless, unlovable self.

“What about you?”

For a minute Tully had forgotten what exactly they had been talking about.

“What do you mean?”

“What will you do for Thanksgiving?”

He caught himself staring at her, then grabbed for another piece of pizza, feeling his indifference slipping. Yet he couldn’t help but smile. His daughter was worried about him spending Thanksgiving alone. Could there be anything more cool?

“Hey, I’m planning on a full day of fun, sitting in my underwear watching football all afternoon.”

She frowned at him. “You hate college football.”

“Well, then maybe I’ll go to the movies.”

This made her giggle, and she had to set her Pepsi aside so as not to spill it.

“What’s so funny about that?”

“You, go to the movies by yourself? Come on, Dad. Get real.”

“Actually, I’ll probably need to work. There’s a pretty important case we’re working on. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about it.”

He pulled the photocopy from his back pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Emma.

“Do you know this girl? Her name’s Virginia Brier.”

Emma took a careful look, then set the copy aside and began on another piece of pizza.

“Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“No, she’s not in trouble.” Tully felt a wave of relief. It looked like Emma didn’t recognize the girl. Of course he had been crazy. There had been hundreds of people at the monuments Saturday night.

But before he could relax, Emma said, “She doesn’t like to be called Virginia.”

“What?”

“She uses Ginny.”

Jesus! The nausea grabbed hold again.

“So you do know her?”

“Actually, Alesha and I just met her Saturday when we were on the field trip, but yeah, she was there Saturday night, too. She sorta made us mad, because she was flirting with this boy Alesha really liked. He was really cool and he seemed to be having a good time with us until that reverend guy fawned all over Ginny.”

“Hold on a minute. Who was this boy?”

“His name’s Brandon. He was with Alice and Justin and the reverend guy.”

Tully got up and went to where he’d left his windbreaker. He started pulling everything out of his pockets and finally found the pamphlet he had picked up blowing around the FDR Memorial. He handed it to Emma.

“Is this the reverend guy?” He pointed to the color photograph on the back.

“Yeah, that’s him. Reverend Everett,” she read off the pamphlet. “Except they were all calling him Father. Seemed kinda creepy. I mean it’s not like he’s their dad or anything.”

“It’s not that weird, Emma. Catholics call priests Father. It’s sort of a title, like pastor or reverend or Mr.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t like they were using it as a title. They really were all talking about him as if he were their father, ’cause he’s their leader and like he knows what’s best for them and stuff.”

“This Brandon guy, did you see him go off with Ginny?”

“You mean like to be alone?”

“Yes.”

“Dad, there were like tons of people. Besides, Alesha and I left before the rally thing was over. It was so lame, all that singing and clapping.”

“You think you might be able to give a detailed description of Brandon?”

She looked at him as if realizing for the first time there might be some connection to the questions about Ginny and his job as an FBI agent.

“Yeah, I guess I could,” she said, her indifference changing to concern. “I thought you said Ginny wasn’t in trouble.”

He hesitated, wondering what to tell her. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, and chances were she’d hear about it soon on TV. No matter how much of a protective father he wanted to be, he couldn’t protect her from the truth. And she’d be upset with him if he lied.

He reached across the floor and took her hand, then said, “Ginny’s dead. Someone murdered her Saturday night.”