“No. I meant both of us.”
“This can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“No, it cannot.”
After several minutes of silence, Julia asked, “Why did Chief McQuaid send you instead of coming himself?”
“I volunteered. He’s preparing to leave his family and wants to spend as much time with them as possible.”
“And you don’t? Have a family, I mean.”
“Scattered.”
“Married?”
Miguel’s gut twisted in pain. He would have married Ashley Laine if she hadn’t been killed in the line of duty by Axel, Jr. “No.”
“You don’t talk much, do you?”
“I’m focused on the job. Axis and Axalia Anderson pose a serious threat to all of us.”
“I don’t understand why we’re wasting time meeting with Brendan McAdams, then.”
“You will.”
Ice and snow covered the bare branches of the trees lining the street on which Brendan lived. Snowplows had cleared paths for cars to drive through the neighborhood. Brendan’s house lay in a deep cul-de-sac on at least a half-acre of land. Julia turned into the long driveway and shifted the Suburban into park.
Julia had stopped asking Miguel questions after his last enigmatic response. He didn’t know which was worse—her inquiries or her silence. A rush of sympathy for her rose in him. Julia’s entire world was about to explode.
Miguel rang the doorbell and knocked briskly. He stared at the security camera and waited. Within a minute or two, they heard footsteps approaching and deadbolts unlocking. Brendan opened the door and frowned at them.
“Why are you here? It’s late. Has something else happened?”
The fraction of annoyance in Brendan’s tone belied his apprehension. Miguel detected fear in Brendan’s amber eyes, and he tensed with his suspicion.
“Brendan, aren’t you going to invite us in?” Julia asked. “It’s freezing out here.”
“Of course.” He pulled the door wider to admit them.
Miguel and Julia stepped into a warm foyer where they shed their coats, scarves, and gloves. They followed Brendan into a comfortably furnished living room. A cozy fire crackled.
Indicating a decanter of whiskey on the glass-topped cocktail table, Brendan offered them a drink. “Care for a shot?”
Miguel and Julia exchanged a look and shook their heads. “No.”
“Well, don’t mind if I do.” Brendan poured a liberal amount into a crystal tumbler and saluted them. “Cheers. I guess you’re here to discuss the Anderson situation.”
“Partly.” Miguel crossed his arms. “You know the truth, don’t you, Brendan? For the past eight years, at least, you’ve known the truth.”
Brendan’s eyes slid away from Miguel’s. He drained the tumbler of whiskey and poured another. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a damn coward, McAdams. You don’t deserve to bear that name.” Miguel turned toward Julia. “Agent Washburn, I’m truly sorry for what I’m about to tell you. Earlier today we learned the identity of your birth parents. Lola Escobar Anderson and Julio Escobar.”
Julia’s trusting gaze widened, and she let out a low exclamation of incredulity. “That’s absurd! Tell him, Brendan. Tell Officer Rivera that he’s wrong.”
Brendan pointed to a file folder lying on a recliner next to the fireplace. “I can’t.”
Julia grabbed it and skimmed through the pages. She swayed on her feet as her face lost its color. Miguel started to move toward her to lend aid, but she collapsed onto the recliner. When she finished reading the sordid details of her true heritage, she closed the folder.
