“Cop talk, what else?” replied Frankel, mustering up a smile.

“The two of us were talking about Switzerland,” said Everett as he retook his seat. “We were considering heading over Monday—give ourselves a day to get settled before the New Year festivities. What do you think?”

At that point, Grant wasn’t thinking about Switzerland.

For the first time in days, he actually wasn’t even wondering where Monte Ferguson had disappeared to.

Grant was trying to remember when he’d last been in Scotland when Allison was still alive.

And what he could have possibly missed on that day.

Chapter 30

30

Saturday.

Rachel crumpled up another piece of paper and tossed it across the room at the trash can behind the desk. Swish.

She was sitting in the armchair by the window in Frankel’s hotel room, trying to get started on her feature piece. The only thing she’d succeeded in doing was making about fifty percent of two dozen crumpled jumpers—not a bad percentage, even for LeBron James, but an exercise in pure futility for her.

Having fulfilled a promise to her father not to write a story unless the case was over, she had spent a couple of hours trying to find an entry point or angle on the Commandment Killings. But nothing felt right. Either she glorified Prior Silver’s grisly accomplishments, or cast her father and Frankel in an unflattering light because Silver had run them ragged on two continents and then further shamed them by killing himself before they could bring him in.

A distinct pall had hung over both her and John since leaving her father’s farewell party. Whether it was watching Grant put on a false front for a hundred well-wishers or the toll from being a slave to the stress of Silver’s sickening spree (should she use that alliteration somehow?), the last thing either felt like doing was celebrating. They’d just ordered room service and gone to bed early, so down in the dumps that all they could do was cling to each other until they restlessly fell asleep.

She glanced at John sitting atop the bed working his iPad, catching up on the case’s endless paperwork. Even with light streaming in from an unseasonably sunny (but cold) wintry day, Rachel could tell John was still troubled, especially when he looked up and gave her a slight smile that disappeared as soon as it formed.

Suddenly, the room was feeling incredibly cramped.

“You getting as much done as me?” she asked, nodding at the crumpled papers surrounding the trash can.

“If that means typing the same statement four times, it’s a resounding yes.”

“What do you say to getting out of here for a while?”

“Another resounding yes?”

“Good answer.”