MAGGIE juggled the boxes that filled her arms. As usual she had taken on more than she should have. Her fingers grasped for a doorknob she couldn’t see, yet she refused to put anything down. Why did she own so many CDs and books when she had no time to listen to music or read?

The movers had finally left, after a thorough search for one lost—or, as they insisted, misplaced—carton. She hated to think of it still at the condo, and hated even more the thought of asking Greg to check. He would remind her that she should have listened to him and hired United Movers. And knowing Greg, his anger and curiosity would not leave it alone. She imagined him ripping off the packing tape as though he had discovered some hidden treasure. Because, of course, it would be the one container with items she’d rather have no one thumb through, items like her personal journal, appointment calendar and memorabilia from her childhood.

She set the boxes on the handrail, balancing one with her hip, while she freed a hand to grab at the tightening knot in the back of her neck. Dear God, why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy her first night in her new home? Why couldn’t she concentrate on simple things, stupid everyday things, like her sudden and unfamiliar hunger?

As if on cue, Maggie’s mouth began to water for pizza, and immediately she promised herself one as a reward. She repositioned the boxes to her other hip. She pushed the door open, carefully maneuvering her way in, but still sending several CDs crashing onto the doorstep. She bent just enough to look down at Frank Sinatra smiling up at her through his cracked plastic window. Greg had given her the CD several birthdays ago, although he knew she hated Sinatra. Why did that gift suddenly feel like some prophetic microcosm of their entire marriage?

She shook her head and the thought out of her mind. Their brief morning exchange stayed annoyingly fresh in her mind. Thankfully, he had left for work early. But tonight he would be having his last laugh, sifting through her personal things. He would see it as his right. Legally she was still his wife, and she had given up long ago arguing with him when he shifted into lawyer mode.

Inside her new home, the wood floors’ recent varnish glowed in the sunshine. Maggie had made certain there wasn’t a stitch of carpet in the entire house. Footsteps were too easily muffled by floor coverings.

The living room opened into a sunroom. Windows stretched from the ceiling almost to the floor, and made up three walls in the room. The windows had cinched the deal for Maggie, despite them being a security nightmare. Okay, so even FBI agents weren’t always practical. Besides, she had made certain that the security systems rivaled those at Fort Knox.

The sunroom looked out over the lush green backyard. It was a colorful, wooded fairyland with cherry and apple blossoms, sturdy dogwoods, a blanket of tulips, daffodils and crocus. Below, a stream trickled over rocks. It made her feel safe, as if it were her own personal moat. It provided a natural boundary, reinforced by a line of huge pines standing guard like sentries.

Maggie added the boxes to those already arranged and stacked in the corner. She glanced over the labels one last time, hoping the missing one would miraculously show itself. Then, hands on hips, she turned around, admiring the spacious rooms. She had brought very few pieces of furniture with her, but more than she had expected to extract from Greg’s lawyerly clutches. She wondered if it was financial suicide for anyone to ask for a divorce from a lawyer spouse. Greg had handled all of their joint financial and legal affairs for almost ten years.

Every appliance, every piece of linen, everything they owned had been a joint purchase. When they moved from their small Richmond apartment to the expensive condominium in Crest Ridge, they had bought new furniture, and all of it went together. It seemed wrong to split up sets. Maggie smiled and wondered why she couldn’t bring herself to split up furniture but could do so with their ten-year marriage.

She had managed to take the pieces of furniture that mattered most. Her father’s antique rolltop desk had made the trip without a scratch. She patted the back of her recliner. It and the brass reading lamp had been exiled long ago to the den, because Greg said it didn’t match the leather sofa and chairs in the living room.

She remembered when they had first bought the set. She had tried to break it in with some passionate memories. Greg had been horrified. “Do you know how easily leather stains?” He had scolded her as though she were a child spilling Kool-Aid instead of a grown woman initiating sex with her husband.

No, it was easy to leave those pieces behind. As long as the memory of their crumbling marriage stayed with them. She pulled a duffel bag from the pile in the corner and set it on the desk.

She unzipped the bag and removed her holstered Smith & Wesson revolver. She liked the way the pistol fit in her hands. There was a familiarity, like the touch of an old friend. While other agents had upgraded to more powerful automatic weapons, Maggie drew comfort from the gun she knew best.

She had depended on it numerous times, and, though it had only six rounds compared to an automatic’s sixteen, she knew she could count on all six without any jamming. As a newbie—as FBI recruits were called—she had watched an agent go down, helpless with a Sig-Sauer 9 mm, jammed and useless.

She pulled out her FBI badge in its leather holder. She laid both it and the gun on the desk, almost reverently. Also in the bag was her forensic kit, a small black pouch that included an odd assortment of things she had learned over the years never to be without.

She left the kit tucked in place, zipped the bag and slid it under the desk. For some reason, having these things close by made her feel secure, complete. They had become symbols of who she was. They made this feel more like home than any of the possessions she and Greg had spent their adult lives collecting.

She traced a finger over the leather case of her badge, waiting for some sign of regret. But when none came, it didn’t necessarily make her feel any better. She and Greg had become strangers. Why hadn’t she seen that a year ago when she lost her wedding ring and hadn’t felt compelled to replace it?

Maggie swiped at strands of hair that stuck to her forehead. Its dampness reminded her that she needed a shower. Her T-shirt was dirty and stained. Her arms were marred with black and purple scuffs. She rubbed at one to discover a bruise instead of dirt. As she searched for her phone she noticed a police cruiser whiz by.

She found the phone under a stack of papers. She dialed from memory and waited, knowing it would take more than five or six rings.

“Dr. Patterson.”

“Gwen, it’s Maggie.”

“How the hell are you? Did you get moved in?”

“Let’s just say my stuff is moved.” She noticed the Stafford County Coroner’s van drive past. She went to the window and watched the van until it was out of sight. The street had no outlet. “I know you’re swamped, Gwen, but I was wondering if you had a chance to check on what we talked about last week?”

“Maggie, I really wish you’d leave the Stucky case alone.”

“Look, Gwen, if you don’t have time, all you need to say is that you don’t have time,” she snapped, and immediately wished she could take her words back. But she was tired of everyone trying to protect her.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Maggie. Why do you always make it so goddamn hard for people to care about you?”

She let the silence hang between them. She knew her friend was right. Suddenly in the distance, Maggie heard a fire engine’s siren, and her stomach turned to knots. What was happening just around the corner? She couldn’t smell or see smoke. Thank God. If it was a fire, she would be useless. The thought alone scared the hell out of her, reviving memories of her father’s death.

“How about I stop over tonight?”

Gwen’s voice startled Maggie. She had forgotten she was still on the phone.

“The place is a mess. I haven’t even started to unpack.”

“It doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you. Why don’t I pick up a pizza and some beer? We can picnic on the floor. Sort of a housewarming party.”

The siren began to grow distant, and Maggie realized it was not on its way to her neighborhood. Her shoulders relaxed.

“You can pick up some beer, but don’t worry about the pizza. I’ll have it delivered.”

“Just remember, no Italian sausage on my side. Some of us need to watch our weight. I’ll see you around seven.”

“Fine. Sure. That’ll work.” But Maggie was already distracted as another police cruiser sped by. Without a second thought, she put down the phone and grabbed her badge. She quickly reset the security system. Then she tucked her revolver in her waistband and headed out the door. So much for seclusion.