Maddy made special arrangements to visit him on his run. His usual response to her requests for these small-time pep talks is “I was a player, not a coach.” But he knows how important this next week is for her. For the whole damn country.

CHAPTER
32

Litchfield, Connecticut

The buzz of a cell phone wakes me. It’s not my phone, it’s Garrett’s. I check the screen—O’Halloran—and pass it to Garrett. “It’s your detective friend.”

Poor Garrett. He had a rough night. Every move made him groan in pain. The towel I put over his pillow is streaked and splotchy with blood from the wound on his forehead.

He sits up, wincing and grabbing his side. “Eddie! Let me put you on speaker. I’ve got my partner, Brea, right here.” He taps the screen. “Go ahead. What were you saying?”

The voice on the other end is gruff, with a thick Boston accent. “My buddy, a detective who covers Southie, called me about a homicide they caught late last night. Single mom took two to the forehead.”

My stomach starts to cramp.

O’Halloran clears his throat. “The victim’s license was from out of state. Virginia. Name on it was Lillian Brady. They checked with her neighbor, then with the police down in Virginia Beach. Court records show a name change. Turns out Lillian Brady was Amber Keenan. They have a witness, a store clerk, who says one of the shooters called her Amber.”

Screams rise in my throat and I clutch a blanket. Did my visit with Amber somehow lead to her death?

“Her two kids were outside in the car when it happened,” says O’Halloran.

Garrett goes into reporter mode. “So maybe she stumbled into the middle of a robbery.”

“No,” says the detective. “Clerk says they were waiting for her. This was a hit, pure and simple.”

“What about the shooters?”

“Masks. Pros. They even took the ejected cartridges.”

I put down the blanket and lean toward the phone. “Detective, this is Brea Cooke. I talked to Amber Keenan yesterday about the Suzanne Bonanno case.”

“What? Where?”

“At the bar in Southie where she worked.”

“And did you get anything out of her?”

“I did. But not the whole story. She was supposed to call me to follow up today.”

“Well, it might not have mattered.”

“Why is that?” asks Garrett.

“Because I got another news flash for the two of you,” says O’Halloran. “Somebody just confessed to Suzanne Bonanno’s murder.”

CHAPTER
33

The White House

In his West Wing office, just a few steps from the Oval, Burton Pearce checks his desk clock. Rachel Bernstein, chief of staff for the vice president, is ten minutes late.

Playing the game.