Page 77 of Lock ’N’ Load

Now that she knew what he looked like totally naked, it was impossible not to imagine him standing beneath the pounding spray.

Poofy readjusted his position on the desk, tucking his tail beneath him and closing his eyes in that half-closed position cats were known for.

Focus. Focus on the files. Anything for distraction.

She began tapping on the keyboard, searching for other articles written by Thomas George, determined to find the connection between the reporter’s big story that he may or may not have been killed for, the attacks on her, and whatever the Russian rezidentura had been referring to in the chat room. She had a feeling the answer lay in the reporter’s encrypted files.

Maybe there’s another way.

The burner phone Matt had given her lay on the desk beside the laptop. What she was about to do was exactly what Wayne had forbidden.

Thirty seconds of internet research later, she was on hold for Martin Denis, Thomas George’s editor at the Arlington Sentinel.

“Martin Denis,” a man answered.

Hairs on the back of Trista’s neck tingled. She spoke Russian herself and had been exposed to many dialects throughout the course of her career. So she could recognize the faint accent of someone who’d been in the U.S. a very long time. Denis was also a shortened version of Denisovich, a common Russian surname.

Should I hang up? No, the phone is a burner and completely untraceable.

“Hello?” the voice said.

“Mr. Denis, my name is Elizabeth Winter. I’m a reporter for the Charlotte Sun. I’m calling about Thomas George, one of your reporters who was recently murdered.”

“Ah, yes,” Denis said. “A tragic loss for us here at the Sentinel.”

“Since George was a Charlotte resident, I’m doing a small local-interest piece. I understand the police have no leads as to the motive behind his murder.”

“No, they don’t,” he confirmed. “It’s quite mysterious.”

“Do you have any idea what story he was working on at the time?” She held her breath and, when he didn’t respond, added, “He was an investigative reporter, so I couldn’t help wondering if whatever he was working on might have a link to his death.”

There was a lengthier pause on the other end. “Why would you come to that conclusion?”

Think fast. Keep him talking.

“I realize it is somewhat of a leap, but when the police don’t have any of the usual motives, such as burglary gone bad or crime of passion, we have to think outside the box. Do you know what he was working on?”

“Even though Thomas is dead, I’m hoping someone else will pick up his story and complete it one day. In his memory, of course. In the meantime, it is the Sentinel’s policy not to comment on any unpublished articles.”

“So you do know what story he was working on.”

“What did you say your name was?” Denis asked, a discernible note of suspicion in his tone.

Trista hung up, letting out a frustrated breath. It had been worth a try.

Poofy raised his head, and a second later, the doorbell rang. Looking at the monitors on the adjacent wall, she saw a tall man and a slightly shorter woman standing on the front porch by the main door. She’d been given strict instructions not to unlock the door for anyone, but as she peered closer at the couple on the monitor, something about them looked familiar.

At the door, she pulled aside the sheer curtain covering the sidelight window. In a millisecond, she knew who these people were. The man was an older version of Matt, with the same solid build and confident bearing. His hair was a distinguished gray, but he was still an undeniably handsome man. There was no doubt he was Matt’s father.

The woman standing beside him was about six inches shorter but still tall for a woman. She’d undoubtedly tower over Trista, just as Matt did. Her features were similar to Matt’s and his father’s but in a feminine way. The woman looked to be about Matt’s age, so she guessed this was his sister. The next things she noticed were the stylish clothes, hair, and makeup. Trista could only dream of carrying off such a put-together look.

Even though Matt would be pissed at her for letting someone into the house, she entered the code to disengage the alarm, then unlocked the door. Both the man and woman stared at her, their eyes dipping first to her shirt, then down her legs to her bare feet.

The woman’s mouth quirked into a grin that reminded her of Matt. “Nice shirt.”

Oh boy.

Since the washing machine had been in constant use lately by all of Matt’s friends, he’d given her one of his old Harvard T-shirts. The shirt was so long on her that she’d tied it off at the waist, revealing a couple inches of bare midriff.