“Sometimes there is no reason,” Sam said softly.

Ross Walker’s widow excused herself and left the room, returning with a tissue she used to blot under her eyes.

“I’m so sorry that you made the trip all the way out here and I haven’t been able to tell you anything at all.”

“Mrs. Walker, I didn’t come here to question you,” Sam told her. “I came to meet you. As a Mercy Street client, I just wanted you to know that we’re going to do whatever we can. There are no guarantees…”

“Oh, I know that.” She waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t expect a miracle. But I saw Robert Magellan on TV and he was talking about how he was putting together this crack team of investigators and how it wouldn’t cost anything if they picked your case, and I figured, what do I have to lose? I appreciate that someone there thought our case was worth looking into.” She turned to Coutinho. “Chris, I know how hard you worked on this case. You’ve become almost like a member of the family. I need to know that you understand that my submitting Ross’s case to Mercy Street didn’t mean that I thought you didn’t do your job.”

“I understand completely, Mrs. Walker,” the detective replied. “I’m really fine with your decision. I’d love to see the case solved, you know that. If Sam can do that, I’ll be the first on the phone to congratulate him.”

“Actually, Detective Coutinho hasn’t completely abandoned the case,” Sam interjected. “He is working with us to track down a few potential witnesses.”

Lynne Walker smiled broadly. “Thank you, both of you. For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel hopeful that his killer might be found.”

When Sam opened his mouth to remind her not to get her hopes up, she turned to him and said, “I know. I know it may never happen. But I feel that with all the attention being paid to his case, our odds are just that much better now.”

On the way back to Coutinho’s office where Sam would pick up his car, the detective asked, “Was that true? What you said back there about your wife?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn, I’m sorry, man.”

“Thanks.” Sam stared out the window. After several miles had passed in silence, he said, “The guy who murdered Carly did it to prove to me that he could. No other reason. Just to prove that he could take her from me.”

“Some old boyfriend or something?”

Sam shook his head. “A serial killer I was helping to track. He’d killed seven women, all the same way. I was in West Virginia at the funeral for number six when he came into my home in the middle of the night. By the time I got home, she’d been dead for over twenty-four hours.”

“Jesus, that’s rough.” The detective shook his head as if shaking off a curse. “You said they caught the guy.”

“Don Holland. He swears he didn’t do it.” Sam snorted. “He kills seven other women in exactly the same manner-admits to those, by the way-but swears he did not touch my wife. His fingerprints were all over my house, and he actually admitted he was there. But he swears that Carly wasn’t there and that he never touched her.”

“Why would he do that?” Coutinho wondered aloud. “You’d think it wouldn’t matter at that point.”

“At his trial, he swore that breaking into our home was just a lark. He just wanted to tweak my nose a bit. And of course, his wife swore he was with her the night Carly was murdered.”

“Do you think she was in on the killing?”

“They both said no. Holland swore he acted alone and that she had no idea he was involved in such things.”

“You don’t sound convinced of her innocence.”

“Every year, on the anniversary of Carly’s death, I get a card from her. How does it feel to know your wife’s killer has gotten away with murder for-then she fills in the number of years. Then she signs it. Love, Laurie Heiss.”

“What’s the point in that?”

“I guess she wants to make sure I remember the date.”

Coutinho looked at Sam across the console. “Like there’s a chance you’re going to forget.”

“Yeah. Like there’s a chance.”

Sam sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room and leaned forward to untie his shoes, when his phone rang. He got up and retrieved it from the pocket of his jacket, slung over the back of a chair.

“Sam, it’s Chris Coutinho. I just got off the phone with Tom Reid, the detective who met with the FBI agent who was asking about the Walker case. He found the agent’s card.”

“Great. Who was it?”

“Fiona Summers.”

Inwardly, Sam groaned. “Thanks, Chris.”

“You want the number?”

“I know how to find her, thanks.”

“Keep in touch, right?”

“You got it. And thanks again for taking me around yesterday.”

“Don’t mention it. You can return the favor if I ever get to… what’s the name of that town you’re in?”

“Conroy, Pennsylvania. About as big as it sounds. Trust me, it won’t be a long tour.”

The detective chuckled and hung up, and Sam immediately dialed another number. When the call was answered, Sam said, “Will, tell me that Fiona Summers is not as big a pain in the ass as everyone says she is.”

“Fiona Summers is not as big a pain in the ass as everyone says she is,” Will Fletcher, one of Sam’s friends who was still with the FBI, repeated solemnly. He paused, then asked, “Who says she’s a pain in the ass?”

“Everyone I know who’s ever worked with her.”

“Sam, are you back in the fold now? You’ve finished racing around the globe and you’re back home, with the good guys, where you belong?”

“I’m back in the States and I’ve had enough traveling to last me a long, long time. I’ll tell you about it sometime. But I’m not back with the Bureau.”

“Damn. For a moment I thought… but then why ask about Fiona?”

Sam explained his new job and Fiona’s potential involvement with his case.

“She won’t be a problem,” Will assured him. “She just runs a tight ship, that’s all.”

“That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say about her.”

“She can’t be that bad. Miranda’s worked with her and likes her. Want me to ask her?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay, hold on. Give me a minute to find her.”

Sam heard Will’s footsteps echoing off into the distance, then some muffled conversation, before a light and teasing voice picked up an extension.

“Is this the Sam DelVecchio? The tall, dark, and, well, you know…”

“Ah, the ever lovely Miranda.” Sam smiled. He’d always liked and respected his former fellow agent. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”

“They’re coming along. Of course, the wedding is going to be quite the extravaganza, between Will’s huge family and my father and all of his many families. Imagine the clash of cultures. But of course, we’ll deal with them all with our usual grace and humor.”

“I’m sure you will.” Sam laughed, knowing both family histories: Will was one of nine children born into a very conservative family in Maine, and Miranda’s father was an aging British rock star known for his many marriages and offspring.

“So what’s this Will is telling me about you jumping ship for good and going off to work for some private detective agency?”

“All true. It was time for a change,” he said simply.

“Do what you have to do, buddy,” she replied. “But we do miss you. The new guy isn’t as good as you were. Nor is he as much fun, either.” Miranda paused, then added, “At least, that’s what the other ladies are saying…”

Sam laughed again. “Speaking of the other ladies…”

“Right. Fiona Summers. Will said you might have a problem with her?”

“No, I don’t have a problem. At least, not yet. I’m working my first case for the Foundation, and it appears she’s been making inquiries about it, picked it up from one of the databases. I’m thinking she must have something she thinks could be related, or at least something similar enough for her to have taken notice.”