Until then I had been reacting—to grief, to revelation, to danger, to the shock of discovering that my husband had died in the middle of a secret mission I had never known existed. But holding that note in my hand, looking at the shattered glass spread across the floor of the house George had preserved for years, I felt my fear begin to change into something more useful.
Resolve.
I called 911.
Deputy Marisol Torres arrived twenty-eight minutes later in a county cruiser dusted from the back roads. She was in her forties, sharp-eyed, broad-shouldered, with the calm of somebody who had spent enough time around human chaos to know the difference between panic and danger. I liked her immediately, though I did not trust ease with law enforcement enough to show it.
I told her about the brick, Brendan’s visit, Clare’s fear, the photographs, the journal, and finally the possibility that George’s crash might not have been an accident at all.
She listened without interrupting.
That alone was more grace than I expected.
When I finished, Deputy Torres looked first at Clare, then Helena.
“You running from an abusive situation?” she asked Clare gently.
Clare nodded once without raising her eyes.
“And you?”