Regan and Jack had met when Luke Reilly, owner of three funeral homes in New Jersey, had been kidnapped with his driver in New York City. He’d just stepped out of the hospital where Regan’s mother, Nora, had been recovering from a broken leg. Jack, head of the Major Case Squad, had been called in. The rest, as they say, is history.

“Let’s plan to be on the road by seven,” Jack said as he stepped out into the hallway. “Hopefully the traffic will have eased up by then.”

They were headed to the Jersey Shore to spend what was predicted to be a hot and sunny weekend with Regan’s parents at the beach house they had purchased in Spring Lake, after spending years in the Hamptons. Saturday was Nora’s birthday.

Regan smiled as she watched Jack turn and press the button for the elevator. He was the best thing that ever happened to her—and so handsome at six foot two with green eyes and light brown hair that tended to curl. Regan, five foot seven, was black Irish, with dark hair, blue eyes, and light skin. People often commented that they seemed made for each other.

The elevator door opened. “See you later, Regan Reilly Reilly,” Jack said with a wave.

That was another thing. They had been born with the same last name. No messy paperwork for Regan when they got married.

“Love you,” Regan called. She closed the door, then walked with deliberation to her office. A private investigator, she’d been living in Los Angeles at the time she met Jack and had a small, funky office in Hollywood. When she moved to New York, she’d set up shop in their spacious and painstakingly renovated loft. Heavy on the pain, Regan always said. The renovation had been no picnic. But it had been worth it.

The sight of her home office, with its gleaming mahogany desk and matching shelves filled with books and pictures, normally felt welcoming. But today was different. She wished she could have made this phone call last night, but Hayley had to work until well past midnight. Regan pulled out her chair, glancing at her grandmother’s old-fashioned clock on the mantel as she sat down. It was 8:10. Hayley’s cell phone number was on a piece of paper by the phone.

A high school classmate, Hayley Patton, had contacted Regan on Monday morning, just three days ago, after spending another miserable weekend without her beau. Scott Thompson, the guy she’d been dating for four months, had recently gone through a less than amicable divorce and claimed he needed to spend his weekends with his sixteen-year-old son, who lived with his mother.

“Until this all settles down, I have to focus on Trevor,” he’d told her.