stirred downstairs, the sound carrying up to Rain. Ticktock.
“I thought you were out,” he said. “Home with the kid full-time.”
She heard it, the weight of judgment. A little flame of anger lit inside her. Some people judged you for staying home. Others judged you for wanting to work even though you had taken on the all-sacred role of mother. Rain had never been overly concerned with what people thought. But even she felt the trap of it, how nothing was ever quite good enough. Was there always someone waiting to put you down?
“I’m producing a podcast,” she said. Why did she say that? That was the furthest thing from her mind. Impulsive, reactionary. That’s what her dad always said about her. But he meant it as a compliment. “A crime podcast. You know—long-form journalism.”
“Seriously?”
“Why not?”
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s what everyone says these days, why not? Anyone can do it.”
“I’ve made my bones,” she said easily. Ten years investigating, writing and producing news, she had. “Besides—these days—podcasts? That’s the only real journalism left. Everything else is bought and paid for, beholden to advertisers and their agendas. It’s called democracy, remember that old idea? Freedom of speech. Not speech controlled by whoever happens to be paying the bills.”
She didn’t realize she’d felt so passionately about this. She didn’t. She just didn’t like being marginalized.
“Most of it’s crap.”
“Most of everything is crap.”
He issued a little chuckle, reminding her that he had a grim, serious face. A heavy, deeply lined brow and a searing, pin-you-to-the-wall kryptonite-green gaze. He had a cop voice, granite-cold and just as hard. But when he smiled or laughed, his whole face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. She wished she was sitting across from him somewhere. It was so much easier to get what you wanted in person.
“You got me there,” he said.
Rain walked to the top of the stairs. She could see Lily’s chubby little legs, perfect pink toes kicking. Ticktock. Ticktock. Rain had left Lily’s squishy book in reach, hoping it would buy a little time when Lily woke up. She heard it crinkle as the baby picked it up and made a happy coo. Score. She’d just earned herself about four minutes.
“Come on,” she said. “You must have something.”
He sighed into the phone. He just liked to argue for the sake of arguing. She could relate; a good verbal sparring session was one of the most satisfying encounters you could have with a man—especially when you won. And cops, even though they pretended otherwise, loved to talk—it was downright painful when they couldn’t tell you what they knew.
“All I can say is that it wasn’t a rage killing like you’d expect. It was organized, clean. Someone planned it.”
She already knew that. “That’s what you told Gillian.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And the Feds moved in this morning, took over the investigation.”
Both pieces of information she already had. He was holding back.
“What else?” she pushed.
She heard a car door slam on his end, footfalls. There were voices, another phone ringing. Lily was making noises downstairs, fishing for Rain.
“Okay, look,” he said finally. “All I know is that they think it connects to another case they’re working. An older one.”
“What case?”
Another long pause. This time she thought he’d hung up, which he also did quite a bit. Then, “Google the Boston Boogeyman. That’s it. That’s all I can say.”
A jolt through her system. She knew the name. Knew it well.
She realized that she was gripping the phone so hard it actually was making her hand ache. Release. Breathe. Rule number one of news investigation: just keep asking questions.
“How was Markham killed?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Come on.”
“It’ll be out there soon enough,” he said. “You’ll have to hear it in the news along with all the other civilians.”
Ouch. That hurt.
“Shot?”
“Hey,” he said, his voice going softer. “What I hear—it’s yours, okay? I promise. I’ll call you.”
He always promised that, and he’d never once made good on it. It was just a way to get off the phone.
“So, you just don’t know?” He knew. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he tell her?
“Goodbye, Winter.”
“Why don’t you give her a call?” Just a hook to keep him on the line. Gillian and Christopher weren’t good for each other and they all knew it.
“Gilly?” he said. No one else on earth called her that. “I’m not sure I’m the man she deserves.”
He sounded a little sadder than she would have expected.