“Anything.”
“Would you go down and meet Agent Thorne and Adam when they get here and explain what’s going to happen? He’s going to be freaked out, being picked up at home and brought here.” She glanced at Peterson. “I wish you’d have told me; I would have talked to him.”
“I don’t think he would have talked to you,” John said, and her attention snapped back to him. Her eyes widened, not in anger but surprise and something more. Disappointment? Hurt? “After the incident with the lilies, I think Adam is a little intimidated.”
Hurt. Definitely hurt in her stormy eyes. She nodded and turned away, but not before he saw the glistening of tears.
“I’ll talk to him,” John assured her and left the room.
Rowan stared at the thick file folder, her heart pounding so loudly she thought for sure Quinn and Tess would be able to hear it. She was so scared, but she wouldn’t admit it. Not now.
“I never knew,” Quinn said, resting a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged, worried if she spoke her voice would quiver. “Miranda knew, didn’t she?”
Rowan nodded and let out a long breath. “Most of it. The first week we were at the academy, Miranda, Olivia, and I talked about why we wanted to become agents. We were drinking margaritas. I rarely drink.” She almost smiled, remembering how good it felt to find two women who understood her. “I’d never talked about it before, not even to Roger. Roger didn’t want to talk about it, I don’t think. It was over and I needed to move on. I-well, I had some issues back then.”
“That’s not surprising.”
She waved off his comment and sat down at the table, not looking at the file across from her. She’d have to go through it, but needed a minute. She glanced at Tess, who still appeared to be working on something, but Rowan sensed she had an ear cocked toward their conversation. What did it matter? The truth was going to come out anyway. It was just as well. It wasn’t like Tess could hate her any more than she already did.
“Miranda had been upfront with us from day one. That’s one of the things I love about her.”
Rowan looked up at Quinn who stood with crossed arms and a tight jaw, his dark eyes unreadable. Did he feel guilt or anger over what happened with Miranda at Quantico? Rowan wished she could ask, but Quinn would accuse her of evading.
“Anyway,” she continued, “we were drinking and Miranda asked us why we were there. It just came out.” Rowan paused. Even after telling John everything, it was still hard to talk about what happened that night.
“Why did you want to be an agent? Because of Roger?”
“Partly. He saved my life. Not physically, but psychologically. He gave me focus. He cares so much about justice.”
“So do you.”
“Yes, I care. But he wants to punish criminals. I want to avenge the victims.” She paused. The difference was so subtle, she didn’t know how to explain it.
“I never understood how my father could kill my mother,” she said. “Even with the repeated physical abuse, I never thought-I mean, I really thought he loved her in his own warped way. But I was a kid, I didn’t know any better. I know now after years of psychology and criminology classes that domestic violence isn’t love. But I had to try to find out why my father lost his mind. How Bobby could be so cruel. If I knew why, I could be a better agent. I could better fight for the victims if I understood their attackers.”
“Did you find the answers you sought?”
“No. Every criminal I interviewed I asked why. I never got an answer I understood.”
“Maybe because you’re not a killer.”
No, I’m not a killer. My father is. My brother was. Not me. Not yet.
She stared at the file, dreading what was inside, knowing the pictures and reports would hurt and bring back memories she’d tried to keep buried. She couldn’t run anymore. She had to do it. To stop the insanity.
She opened the file.
The documents, either printed from the computer archives or faxed from Roger, were in little semblance of order. The first page was the original police report. Multiple homicide. The victims were listed by name, age, location, and apparent cause of death.
Elizabeth Regina MacIntosh, 46, white female, found in kitchen. Multiple stab wounds, deceased.
Melanie Regina MacIntosh, 17, white female, found in entry. Stabbed multiple times, deceased.
Rachel Suzanne MacIntosh, 15, white female, found in entry. Stabbed multiple times, deceased.
Danielle Anne MacIntosh, 4, white female, found in master bedroom. Shot once in chest with 9mm handgun, deceased.
Rowan took a deep breath. She felt like a child again. Saw her mother’s dead and bloody body. Watched her sisters die. Ran with Peter and Dani to the closet.
But Bobby came after them.
Turning the page, she saw her father’s commitment papers. She’d read them so many times before she had them memorized, so quickly turned the page.
Bobby’s arrest.
Suspect in multiple homicide escaped through second story window and was pursued to the corner of Crestline Drive and Bridgeview Court where he was apprehended without further incident. Read Miranda warning and suspect asked for an attorney.
His description was listed in clinical terms. Robert William MacIntosh, Junior, 18. Blond hair, blue eyes, six feet one inch, 170 lbs. No distinguishing marks. No tattoos. No piercings.
Bobby looked like a nice guy, but Rowan knew the truth about him. She’d known forever that Bobby was evil. Thank God he was dead.
Yet from the grave he’d pursued her. In her nightmares. In her choice of career, both to join the FBI and ultimately to quit the FBI. He’d been controlling her life since the beginning, more now that he was dead than he ever could when he was alive. How could she not see it? How could she have lived for so long under his evil shadow and not seen how much he still controlled her?
Now she knew. She wouldn’t let him do it any longer.
She turned the page.
“You okay, Ro?” Quinn asked quietly as he slid a glass of water in front of her.
She nodded and gratefully accepted the drink. She sipped, the cool liquid soothing her raw throat. Quinn stood behind her like a soldier. She felt his gaze boring into her back. She heard the click-click-click of Tess on the computer. Pause. Click-click-click. It’d be annoying if it weren’t so rhythmic.
She turned another page.
Photos.
She carefully put the glass down, afraid her shaking hand would spill water on the file. The kitchen. Mama wasn’t in it, but she saw the starkness of the black-and-white imagery, the blood-spattered walls, the overturned chair. Some artists chose black and white because its impact was far more powerful than color. There was nothing to compare with blood in stark gray. You expected it to be red in color; you didn’t realize it had such depth until the color was leeched from the image.
She rapidly flipped through the photos. She couldn’t look. This was what she was here to do, but she couldn’t do it. Quinn took them from the stack and placed them face down, away from her. She wiped her face, surprised to feel damp cheeks.
Focus on the reports. Pretend she hadn’t been there. This was simply another investigation, the family strangers.
She didn’t know if she could finish, but she had to.
She picked the pictures up again and took a deep breath.
She noticed the room had become silent. Quinn watched her closely. Tess had stopped working and was staring at her, a frown on her round face. Damn. If the answers were here, in this damned file, she had to find them.
Quinn’s cell phone rang and he answered. “Peterson… All right, thanks for the heads up.” He slammed the phone shut.
“What’s wrong?” Rowan asked, fearing the worst. Not another dead body.