“I feel terrible for Devin’s mother. And for Devin. They thought she was slowly going crazy for close to two decades,” said Marnie.

“Sometimes a conspiracy, or any big idea, I suppose, is simply too big or hard to believe for its time.”

“Or both,” she said.

“Right,” said Rich. “Conversely, if you don’t give people enough, they can’t even begin to see the bigger picture and take it seriously. The downfall of the United States—an economic, political, and military superpower—is a hard pill to swallow. From her notes, it appears that she started with the big picture, instantly alienating everyone she approached. That poisoned her later attempts to trickle information to her remaining allies, who started avoiding her entirely. She could never seem to strike the right balance, and maybe there wasn’t a balance to be struck at the time. On top of that, the CIA had its hands full right around the time she’d started to strike gold with some of her investigative work. Full of Russians and domestic terrorists. Bad timing all around for Helen Gray.”

“It was awful for her family,” she said.

“How long have you known Devin?” said Rich. “Seems like a solid guy.”

“We’ve been friends since middle school. Better friends in high school,” she said. “We’ve kept in touch since then. Mostly off and on, but anytime our paths cross, we grab dinner or a drink. We’ve both been pretty busy since college.”

“Just friends?” asked Rich.

“More or less,” she said.

“I see,” he said, slightly raising an eyebrow.

“What do you mean by ‘I see’”?

“Nothing,” said Rich, nodding toward the vault door. “Here comes Mr. More-or-Less right now with our breakfast.”

“Funny,” she said.

Devin and the operative named Jared walked through the doorway carrying brown oil-stained bags and two carryout cartons of Dunkin’ coffee. The rest of Rich’s team came to life as they started to move files to make room on the table that had been dragged into the vault from the kitchen.

As much as she wanted to use the term “motley crew” to describe Rich’s team, they didn’t fit that description. Everyone looked ragged after sleeping on the floor in the same clothes they’d worn yesterday, but this wasn’t the kind of rogues’ gallery you might connect to the words mercenary or soldier of fortune.

The two operatives who had escorted her parents and Devin’s dad to the airport looked as though they’d just returned from a business conference, dressed in pressed khaki pants, oxford shirts, and windbreakers—to conceal their holstered pistols. Alex and Michael. Just two regular guys who could probably draw those pistols and drill every person in this room through the head in the span of a few seconds.