Grant looked up from his desk chair to see that Rachel had quietly entered the study. She was wearing an Oxford sweatshirt and royal-blue leggings, holding the door open with one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other.

“Until I figure what keeps bothering me about it,” answered Grant.

He lowered the well-worn copy of Ferguson’s interview with Prior Silver. He had been through it at least a dozen times just that morning.

“Maybe the fact that he went off and did it without telling you?” Rachel asked.

“That goes without saying.”

She placed the teacup on a coaster with a Degas racing print on it. The Impressionists had been Allison’s favorites and she collected coasters with replicas of their works—“the closest we’ll ever get to owning one,” she used to joke.

“It’s just all so perfectly pat. Religious mania begets a killing spree we haven’t seen since the Ripper prowled Whitechapel and then ends in the blink of an eye with a confession and dose of strychnine? Doesn’t it seem a bit schizophrenic?”

“Sounds more manic depressive to me. Have you spoken with the medical personnel at the prisons? Might be interesting to get their read on the man.”

“We did when you and Hawley unearthed him. His psych profile was nil—nothing indicated a criminal mastermind who could pull this off.”

“Holed up for twenty years with just a Bible, his thoughts, and a taste for revenge? The man had nothing but time to cook it up.”

“I suppose,” said Grant.

“And I suppose you have time for breakfast?”

Grant dredged up a smile. “Eggs Benedict à la Grant?”

“I wouldn’t dare compete with the master. But in case you’ve forgotten, I do make a mean stack of hotcakes.”

“Lead the way,” Grant said and got up from the desk.

A half hour later, the commander shoved himself away from the table with a contented sigh and a scraped-clean plate. “I had no idea I was that hungry.”

“You barely touched your dinner last night.”

Her Mother Bear concern caused Grant to crack a half-smile. “Have I reached that time of life where the children and parents flip roles?”

“Hardly. But I still worry about you every now and then.”

Granted reached across the table for Ferguson’s article again. He could see Rachel rolling her eyes. “Maybe I’ll have a clearer perspective on a full stomach.”

“I know better than to try and stop you from torturing yourself.”

“And believe me when I say I appreciate that.”

But in that moment, his obsession with the newspaper took a back seat as he watched Rachel move about the kitchen with the same ease that Allison had their entire marriage. The thawing over the past week of their chilly relationship had left Grant willing to let whatever promise Rachel was holding on to for her mother keep until she was ready to tell him.