She showered and dressed and went in for an interview accompanied by a Bureau lawyer. Dessa’s interview was video recorded, and she got through it without becoming emotional. She was not asked about the condition of Walt Leppo’s body after he fell. She signed some forms after the lawyer reviewed them, and was informed she could expect an interview with the Office of Professional Responsibility, which was the FBI’s internal affairs unit, within the next few days.

She thought they were going to ask for her badge and credentials. They already had her gun. She was officially reassigned to desk duty during the OPR investigation—standard procedure. She asked how long she could expect the investigation to take.

“A matter of weeks. Or longer.”

The way the supervisory agent said “or longer” convinced her she was going to be fired. Of course, it would come at the end of a prolonged investigation wherein small, inconsequential violations of procedure would be cited as cause. But the real reason would be that she had shot and killed a fellow agent—no matter the circumstances—and couldn’t expect anyone else to ride with her ever again.

Afterward, she was asked to wait inside the garage for a car to return her home. She was standing alone, waiting, when her phone rang. MOM, read the screen.

Oh no. An electric shiver ran through her. If her mother had heard something—a call from the press, perhaps—Odessa didn’t want to talk about it. And if she hadn’t heard something—if this was just a coincidental catch-up call, their first in more than a week—then not talking about it would become a huge issue the next time they spoke. Why didn’t you tell me? The recriminations, on and on. The guilt. Yes, the guilt. Odessa’s world was gone and yet, her mother would make it all about herself. You should’ve told me sooner.

Odessa silenced her phone. She couldn’t talk to her now. Not now. But ignoring the call and letting it go to voicemail was not enough.

Never enough.

Odessa walked away. She couldn’t get in the car right now. As she neared the door to the street, she lengthened her stride, afraid of being seen and called back before she could escape.

She made it onto the sidewalk, moving two blocks north before she felt free again. She texted Linus—she had insisted he go in to work, and wanted him to know she was done with her interview and basically okay—and kept walking. The clouds above were a thick, sweatery gray, threatening hard rain, but only a few needle-sharp drops fell.