Page 1 of What We May Be

Chapter One

Standing at the edge of the crowd in Hanover’s centuries-old cemetery, his dress shoes dusted with sand and pollen, Sean watched as two flag-covered caskets received a three-volley salute. He didn’t flinch at the gunfire—police and Bureau academy had trained that out of him—but when the Stars and Stripes were lifted and folded with snapped precision, when the long, polished caskets were lowered into the ground, his insides clenched, a flinch worse than muscles and bones could betray.

They were gone and Sean had missed his opportunity to say goodbye, to explain, to apologize.

To find out if the cruelest betrayal was worth the broken heart that had never healed.

“You a friend of the family?”

Law enforcement academies had also trained Sean to not betray his surprise at the voice immediately to his right. Never mind the training to always remain aware of his surroundings, a skill that had apparently deserted him in his grief. The uniformed officer who’d approached was white, late twenties or so with a summer sunburn that had caused the rosy skin of his too-thin nose to peel, an errant flake caught in the lashes of his light blue eyes.

Sean smiled politely. “I went to school with Charlie and Cal.”

The officer—Sylvan according to his badge—swiped at his eye, flicking away the bothersome flake. “HU?”

Probably not a local, then. At a minimum, not an HU sports fan. If he’d spent much time at all in the memorabilia-filled halls of Hanover University’s baseball complex, he would have seen the pictures of Sean. Sure, ten years had given him a few more wrinkles, shorter hair, and thicker facial scruff, but he was still #10.

“I did,” Sean answered. “But I haven’t visited in some time.”

“You live out of town?”

The questions were annoying—nosy digging cloaked in polite conversation, a Southern specialty that had taken Sean half his time in Hanover to get used to. Never really had, which made the irony of his career detour even more ironic. That said, Sylvan’s nosiness was warranted. To him, Sean was a stranger in the crowd. The officer was just doing his duty at the funeral of his fallen colleagues. As a fellow LEO, at least until the end of the summer, Sean respected Officer Sylvan’s commitment. As a fellow LEO, Sean also knew how to keep his answers equally polite—and vague.

“Washington.” Not technically—yet—but that’s where he’d be living once he retired from the FBI and moved back across the ocean.

“Nice of you to come down,” the officer said.

“Least I could do.”

Two days ago, his phone had rung and the voice on the other end of the line had delivered a punch to the gut so severe Sean had had to grab the closest chair to hold himself up. He’d been struggling to regain his balance ever since. He shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced back across the cemetery, through the crowd of mourners to the Henby family gravesites. “What happened?”

After the call, he’d scoured the web for information. He’d found a few articles, then culled more detailed reports from various law enforcement channels. But an account from someone local—someone in the department—was likely to be more colorful and possibly more accurate. That’s what Sean had told himself, the rationalization he’d used to justify hopping on an eight-hour flight from Amsterdam to DC and driving six hours to Hanover, despite the razor-sharp claws of self-recrimination and regret tearing apart his insides.

“Bust on a local drug dealer,” Sylvan said. “Charlie’s been building the case against him for years. We finally got the go-ahead to move in as part of a joint takedown with the county sheriff’s department.” He swallowed hard and dug his toe into the sandy dirt. “Someone tipped off the bad guy, though. We still got him, but one of his soldiers also got Cal and the chief.”

The reason they were gathered there today. “Two fallen heroes, two decorated officers of the law, two native sons of Hanover,” the minister had said at the beginning of the service. Detective Callum Henby—Sean’s former friend and teammate and Charlie’s twin brother—and Hanover Chief of Police, Mitch Henby—the man who a decade ago had affectionately called Sean “son” and carved out a place for him in his family.

“We’re lucky we didn’t lose Charlie too,” Sylvan added.

Sean doubted Charlie saw it that way. He peered at Charlotte Henby through the crowd of mourners and the abundance of graveside flowers. She was seated in the front row of folding chairs, dressed in her own police blues, her dark hair pulled into a bun at the base of her neck beneath the lip of her cap, her gloved hands folded in her lap, resting atop two bouquets of red roses. She had remained stoic during the service, likewise not a flinch at the gun salute or when the uniformed officers had handed one of the folded flags to her.

The minister concluded the service, and the family rose. Sean tore his gaze from Charlie and shifted a couple steps behind a group of officers. “The tipster?” he asked Sylvan.

“A mole in the sheriff’s office. Behind bars too.” A faint glimmer of pride belied the officer’s sad smile. “Don’t think Charlie or Abel slept a wink until they nailed him. None of us did. We owed it to Cal and Mitch.”

Sean chanced another glance at the gravesites. Abel Champion, Mitch’s brother-in-law, now the acting chief, was as massive and imposing as Sean remembered. He had his big hand on the shoulder of Charlie’s sister, Annie, who, folded flag clutched to her chest, sobbed in the arms of a uniformed Black man about Sylvan’s age. Abel’s worried gaze, though, was on Charlie, who knelt between the graves and tossed a bouquet of roses into each. He shot a concerned look over her head, toward the final member of the gathered family.

Trevor Caldwell, his dirty-blond locks in a knot, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his jacket, gave Abel a sharp shake of his head. Abel let whatever he wanted to say to Charlie go, knowing as well as Sean did that Trevor read her best. They’d been thick as thieves since childhood, the too-smart kid from the wrong side of the tracks and the police chief’s daughter. Trevor had always understood what Charlie needed better than anyone.

“I didn’t catch your name?” Sylvan said, snapping Sean’s mind out of the past and back to the present.

“Shane,” he replied, the alias easily rolling off his tongue. He held out a hand. “And yours, Officer Sylvan?”

“Wallace.” The young man smiled wider as he returned the handshake. “There’s a reception back at the station. You should swing by. I’m sure Charlie would love to see you.” Sean doubted that too, but he smiled and nodded anyway. “You remember where it is?”

How could he forget? “I do. Thanks.”

Sylvan wished him a good day, then snaked through the rows of graves to pay his respects. Sean tracked his every step, wishing he could do the same. He owed the Henby family so much more.

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