Keller was about to watch the clip when her office phone buzzed. She glanced at the display on the old desk phone. It was her boss, Stan Webb.

“Special Agent Keller,” she said in her official voice. Stan was a formal man, so as a rule Keller kept things formal.

“I need you to come with me to D.C.,” Stan said, without pleasantries. Stan had never asked her to accompany him to headquarters, so this was unusual.

“Sure. When do you—”

“Right away,” Stan said, like it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

“Today?” Keller felt a sinking in her gut. Being beckoned to HQ—with the boss—couldn’t be good. And it was more time away from Bob and the twins. “Is everything okay?”

“You know how they are. The field offices don’t exist until a reporter calls asking about one of our cases.”

“It’s about the Pines?”

“Appears so. I could kill Fisher for getting us involved.” Fisher was Stan’s boss in Washington, a politico who looked over the East Coast field offices and who’d wormed them into the Pine case. “You’ll need to be prepared to brief the deputy director on the status. And on the Marconi investigation.”

“Of course. When do we need to leave?”

“Ten minutes ago. We’re taking the jet. Wheels lift at fourteen hundred hours.”

Stan always spoke in military time and Keller had to do the conversion in her head: 2:00 P.M. She looked at her watch. She had an hour to get things in order. She wouldn’t have time to go home, but she kept a travel bag at the office. She traveled some for her job, but she’d never flown on a Bureau jet. Someone was taking the Pine situation seriously.

And that was without knowing the family could’ve been murdered.

At just before two, Keller mounted the narrow stairs of the Gulfstream. She was embarrassed that she was excited for the flight, her first ever on a private plane. Working for the Bureau wasn’t like those television shows—Criminal Minds or CSI—where agents jetted around hunting serial killers. In Financial Crimes she was largely a desk jockey, analyzing documents, writing reports, occasionally meeting with financial institutions to wrench bank records out of their grubby hands. She looked around the cabin. It didn’t live up to expectations. The jet was better than flying commercial for sure. No waiting in lines or middle seat hell. She had a single seat and her own worktable. But it was hardly glamorous. The plane had the feel of an aging Greyhound bus: dated decor and worn plastic. The flight attendant was a plump woman in a polyester uniform.