“You realize that accusing the FBI director of a capital felony is not something you do without stacks of proof that he was involved.”

“That’s where you come in. I need proof, and I need it fast before that picture gets picked up by the wires or social media and flung around the country. I need proof before he knows that I know.”

Sam had to agree that time was of the essence before this thing blew up into a shitstorm of epic proportions. With that in mind, she started the car, pulled out of the MPD parking lot and into weekday afternoon traffic that clogged the District on the way toward Capitol Hill.

“Where are we going?”

“My house.”

She glanced over at him and saw his eyes get big. “For real?”

“Yes, for real.” She paused before she continued. “Look, if you want me to dig into this, I have to do it at home. I’m serving out a suspension for punching another officer.”

“Whoa.”

“As you can imagine, I’d prefer that not be all over the news in light of who my husband is, and I’ve gotta stay below the radar on this or my bosses will be all over me.”

“No one will hear it from me.”

After a slow crawl across the District, Sam pulled up to the Secret Service checkpoint on Ninth Street. Normally they waved her through, but she had to stop to clear her guest. “They’ll need to see your ID.”

Josh pulled his license from his wallet and handed it to her.

She gave it to the agent, who took a close look before returning it to her. “Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

“What’s that like?” Josh asked. “Being surrounded by Secret Service all the time?”

“About as much fun as you’d expect it to be.”

“Why don’t you have a detail?”

“Because I don’t need one. I can take care of myself.” Thankfully, he didn’t mention the recent siege in Marissa Springer’s basement as an example of her inability to take care of herself. Sam liked to think that was a onetime lapse in judgment, never to be repeated.

Outside their home, her husband’s motorcade lined the street. What was he doing home so early?

She parked in her assigned spot—everyone who lived on Ninth Street now had assigned parking spaces—and headed up the ramp that led to their home.

“Why do you have a ramp?” Josh asked.

“My dad’s a quadriplegic. He lives down the street. My husband installed the ramp so he can visit.”

“Oh, that’s cool. Sorry about your dad, though.”

“Thanks.”

Nick’s lead agent, John Brantley Jr., met her at the door. “Lieutenant.”

“Brant. What’s he doing home so early?”

“The vice president isn’t feeling well.”

“Say what?”