Carrie finds her dad in the kitchen when she gets home. Former Chief of Police Mike Keene stares at his tablet, reading, while Pearl v3.0 sits at his feet. This one is some kind of a pit bull/shepherd mix, with maybe a bit of Chihuahua or something weirder thrown in. Like the last two dogs named Pearl, it’s a collection of mismatched parts, taken from the shelter by Carrie’s dad because it had no chance of being adopted by anyone else.

Carrie gets a glass of water and sits down across from him. The dog shoves its head against her leg. She pets it and it rearranges itself by her father, grumbling a little as it settles on the floor again.

They’re always named Pearl. They keep the name the same to avoid confusing her mom. Carrie had a dog named Bailey when she was a kid. But her dad would never give another dog that name. That would be almost sacrilegious. There was only one Bailey.

Her dad looks up at her, sees her wet hair and generally bedraggled appearance, and frowns at his tablet again.

“If you’re moving back in, we may need to discuss a curfew again,” he says.

“I thought you old guys went to bed after the evening news.”

“Dog needs a walk,” he says. “I was waiting for you. Can you keep an eye on your mom?”

“Of course.”

“Good. We’re not running a crash pad for ex-FBI agents here.”

It might be a joke, but his tone isn’t funny.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m not asking for my old room.”

“You sure?” he says. He shows her the news story on his tablet. It’s an article in the Washington Post. Something about the dismissal of the charges against Gannon. (Her father doesn’t read the Middleton Daily News, and hasn’t for years due to long-standing grudges.) She’s not named, but the entire prosecution is being blamed on “an overzealous agent with an axe to grind.”

But she can’t think about that right now. If she survives whatever’s coming, she’ll consider her career choices.

“Maybe I’ll go into local police work,” she says, trying to lighten the mood.

He doesn’t smile. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Yeah. He’s definitely pissed. She doesn’t have to be a detective to figure that one out. “Something on your mind, Dad?”

He takes a second, deciding whether or not to speak. Carrie doesn’t want to push him over the edge one way or another. She can wait him out.

“Carrie,” he says, and his voice gets deeper, and a little of his anger breaks through. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Carl told me you were snooping inside someone’s house.”