Page 12 of Zero Hour

Shit.

Pat leaned forward as if the air had been punched out of him. He should never have left that night. If he’d stayed, she might still be alive.

Fuck, he couldn’t think like that. No point in dwelling onwhat ifs.He knew better than that.

Frowning, Pat skimmed through the accident details. There was no mention of a note. Nothing to suggest Astrid’s death was anything but a tragic accident.

Had Al-Jabiri been fucking with him?

It would be just like him. But something about the look in his eyes—the sick, twisted glee—told Pat this was real. So where the hell was the note?

He flipped through the forensics report. No signs of foul play. No footprints in the snow. No markings on the body. And still—no note.

Pat leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

Either Al-Jabiri was lying… or the beat cop Raymond missed the note. Or worse, failed to mention it in his report for some reason. Those were the only three scenarios that made sense.

Pat massaged his brow. Assuming Al-Jabiri was telling the truth, that left two possibilities. He had to talk to Raymond.

The following morning,Pat texted Anna to say he’d be late into the office and drove the twenty minutes to Georgetown where Astrid and Richard had lived at the time of her death.

For all Richard’s faults, he’d provided well for his family. They’d lived in a luxurious three-story brownstone tucked into a quiet, wealthy neighborhood—far removed from the chaos of downtown D.C.

As Pat drove past the familiar landmarks, he remembered the feeling he used to get whenever he was on his way here. Theanticipation. That electric thrill of knowing you were about to see the woman you loved.

Now there was only a dull ache.

He pulled up outside the Georgetown Police Precinct—a rectangular red brick building with a blue sign out front. Raymond was now a sergeant, finishing out his years in this sleepy neighborhood instead of in the high-pressure chaos of D.C. proper.

Pat approached the glass partition inside the station. “I’m here to see Sergeant Raymond. He’s expecting me.” He’d called ahead first thing that morning.

“Fill this out.” The duty officer slid him a form.

Pat sighed. Goddamn bureaucracy.

He scrawled out the required info, handed it back, and sat down in the waiting room. Five minutes later, a portly, middle-aged man stepped through the sliding doors.

“Patrick Burke?”

Pat stood, barely recognizing the man he’d met only briefly eight years ago. Age had not been kind. “Yeah. Thanks for seeing me.”

“No problem. Come on back.”

Raymond led him down a dimly lit hallway and into a tiny, windowless office. It smelled of stale coffee and old carpeting. Raymond gestured for him to sit down.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“I have to warn you, it’s not the best,” Raymond said, grabbing two Styrofoam cups from the drinks cart.

Pat shrugged. He’d no doubt had worse.

Once they were seated, Raymond leaned forward. “So, what’s this about?”

“I need to ask about an accident that occurred eight years ago. You might remember? A woman named Astrid Beaumont was killed.”

Raymond stiffened.

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