When I wake up in the morning, he’s already out of bed and in the office making phone call after phone call. It’s a pattern that will grow eerily familiar over the next few days as he tries to cope with his rage and the pain he refuses to acknowledge that he feels. Through it all, I try to love him, try to help him, try to set aside my own rage and confusion to be there for him.
And when he crawls into bed beside me each evening, when he reaches for me and kisses me, holds me and fucks me so desperately in the darkest part of the night—I can’t help wondering why he can’t do the same when the sun is up.
Can’t help wondering if he’ll ever be able to again. And if he can’t, what’s going to happen to us? What’s going to happen to the baby I’ve only just begun to think about?
Chapter 25
“Mr. Frost, there’s someone from the FBI and the Secret Service here to see you.”
I’ve been expecting them. It’s been three days since Brandon died and from what I’ve been able to figure out, no one is any closer to fathoming who murdered my brother than they were the day they found him. I’ve been pulling every string I can to move the investigation forward, but I’ve been blocked at every turn. It doesn’t take a genius to know why.
“Thank you…” I trail off as I realize I don’t remember the temporary receptionist’s name. She’s just filling in while Dorothy is on vacation, but it bothers me that I’ve been so out of it that I can’t remember something as simple as her name.
She must read the hesitation in my silence, because she says, “It’s Tamara, sir. Tamara Keegan.”
“I’m sorry, Tamara.”
“Don’t be, Mr. Frost.” She sounds sympathetic and kind and I know I should be appreciative, but somehow it only makes me feel worse. Probably because it makes Brandon’s death feel even more real—like two federal agents at my door and an office filled to the brim with sympathy flowers—hasn’t done that already.
I clear my throat. “You can send them in.”
“Yes, sir.”
As I stand and make my way over to the door, I concentrate on what I’m going to say to the agents. What questions I’m going to ask and what answers I’m going to give when they start poking at me. Which I know they will—they aren’t here to pay their condolences, after all.
Two men in close to identical black suits meet me at the door. “Ethan Frost?” the taller one asks.
“Yes.” I hold a hand out to him, wait for him to shake. “And you are?”
“Frank Myers, Secret Service, and this is Jack Merski, from the Boston office of the FBI.”
I shake his hand as well, then step back, gesture for them to come in. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?”
“No, thank you,” says Myers. “We’re not here on a social call.”
I shoot him a cool look. “It never occurred to me that you were.” Annoyed now, I very deliberately cross to the Keurig that rests on a small table in the seating area and program a cup of coffee for myself. I keep them waiting as it brews.
“Please, have a seat,” I tell them as I finally make it back to my desk. I wave a hand at the two chairs opposite mine.
They do as I instruct, then do nothing but stare at me for long seconds. I can’t really complain, though, since I’m doing the same to them. But I’ve been in business long enough to know when to speak up and when to wait out the opposition. This is definitely the latter. They’re waiting for me to get jumpy, waiting for me to demand answers about my brother, which is exactly why I don’t. If they’re here to accuse me of killing Brandon, I don’t see any reason to make it easy for them.
When he finally realizes I’m not going to rise to the bait, Myers’s face grows even more sour. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says eventually.
“Thank you.”
“Because he was a candidate for the US House of Representatives, the investigation into his death is handled a little differently than most would be,” Merski tells me. “If he were already a congressman, it would be the Secret Service who searched exclusively for his killer. But since he’s not—and since the murder took place in his home in Boston—we’ve teamed up with the FBI to try to solve the case.”
I nod, and try not to look too unimpressed. After all, so far they aren’t telling me anything I didn’t know four days ago. Even if I didn’t have my own PI on the case, CNN has been very thorough with their coverage of the situation. I’d have to live in a box not to know what was going on with Brandon’s case. And even if I did try to avoid coverage, the reporters camped outside my house and calling my office every day would make that impossible.
Merski pauses, like he expects me to say something. Again, I wait him out.
To be honest, I feel a little bit like an asshole for not being more forthcoming. But I’m smart enough to know this isn’t just an information-gathering expedition. They aren’t here to talk to the victim’s brother and fill me in on the investigation—they could have done that over the phone instead of taking time to fly out here from the East Coast. No, they’re here because they want to poke at me, to find out what went wrong in my relationship with Brandon. And since I’m in no hurry to be accused of murdering my bastard of a brother, I’m more than willing to sit back and see how they come at me.
Myers loses patience first. “When’s the last time you spoke with your brother?” he asks after the silence stretches past the minute mark.
“At his fund-raiser in Boston. He and I spoke for a few minutes—”
“Witnesses say that it was a very intense discussion,” Merski interrupts.