For Abigail, he thought. For her safe return.

Theresa’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.” She was shaking, her teeth chattering. “It’s awful. This whole thing.”

Bob felt terrible. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, too.”

She was chief of operations at a high-tech firm in suburban Lexington. They’d met when he was a patrol officer and she was an office temp with big dreams. They’d stuck together until Jayne, their youngest, was four. That was seven years ago. He’d tried marriage again two years later, for about three seconds. Theresa hadn’t remarried, but she had a boyfriend. Another executive. She’d sworn off cops after Bob.

He couldn’t stand his ex-wife’s fear. “Dyeing your hair these days, Ter?”

“Go to hell. And don’t call me ‘Ter.’ It’s Theresa.”

“Okay. It’s Theresa.”

She sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. Her hair was a honey-blond-total dye job, he was sure-and she had lines at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth, but she looked good. The years hadn’t been so kind to him. He needed to take off a few pounds, and there were brown spots on his arms and face that hadn’t been there before. He was a redhead. His doctor was always on him about sunscreen.

Yeah. How about burning his face off in a fire? What would sunscreen do for that?

“Bob?”

“I’m tuned in, Ter. Just waiting for your next shot.”

She shook her head at him. “Bastard.” She touched his arm, briefly. “Are you all right?”

“Never better.”

He glanced at the black FBI SUV where BPD detectives were reinterviewing Fiona. She’d had a break and sat in the air-conditioning for a while, had something to eat and drink. Now she was slumped against the SUV and back at it.

Enough already.

“Wait here,” Bob told his ex-wife. “I’ll spring Fi as soon as I can. It’ll be a few minutes.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He knew she was true to her word. For all the ways they irritated each other, she was a devoted mother. His legs felt wobbly as he headed for the SUV. Adrenaline dump. Nothing a couple of shots of Jameson’s wouldn’t cure. They’d help the guilt, too. Theresa had wanted him to go to night school and become a lawyer like John March. All those years ago, begging him. She’d never liked police work. She’d never gotten used to the anxiety or believed the statistics. “You carry a gun to work, Bob,” she’d told him. “What more do I need to know?”

No answer to a question like that. What more did Theresa need to know?

He saw Tom Yarborough make his way over to her. Yarborough had been a rock since the explosion, professional, focused, but not unemotional. He and Abigail had worked together for eight months and were always butting heads. Bob had straightened out a few disagreements between them, but they both were top-notch homicide detectives who respected each other. Abigail was just easier to get along with.

Theresa was dabbing a tissue at her eyes now. Bob couldn’t take tears and turned his attention to his daughter.

Fiona had gone through her ordeal first with him, in the initial hysteria as the paramedics were working on Scoop, and then in more detail, with more control, with Yarborough and Lucas Jones. Lucas was Abigail’s former partner. He’d been promoted to lieutenant last fall and moved over to narcotics. Since Norman Estabrook was in cahoots with drug traffickers, Lucas said he should be in on the investigation. He was still with Fiona as she slumped against the side of the SUV. He’d left a picnic with his young family in Roxbury to head to the scene. He was built like a sparkplug and relished being a professional more than a tough guy. But he could be both.

“How you holding up, kid?” Bob asked his daughter.

She gnawed on her lower lip. “Okay.”

“She’s wrung out,” Lucas said, “but she’s doing great.”

If Bob had to pick someone to interview his daughter, it’d be Lucas. The guy was a peach as well as one of BPD’s finest detectives. But Bob didn’t want Fiona talking to cops. He wanted her back with her friends, playing Irish drinking songs.

Down the street, Simon Cahill arrived and showed his FBI credentials to a uniformed BPD officer. He had two FBI suits with him who’d obviously been assigned to keep him alive, but he split off from them and walked over to the SUV. He looked cool, unfazed by the action around him, but that, Bob had learned, was Simon. Even so, he wasn’t the affable man who’d danced and sung to Irish tunes with Keira in the triple-decker’s backyard two months ago. A yard that was now charred, wet, bloody and filled with crime scene investigators.

“Bob…” Simon took a moment to clear his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Did you set the bombs?”

“I should have seen this through before I got involved with Keira. Estabrook was already obsessed with John March, but-”

“Stop. You know regrets won’t help now.”

“You’re right.” He blew out a breath, recovering his composure. “I’d like to take Fiona through what happened.”

Lucas heard him and stepped away from her, protective. “You can see my notes.”

Simon ignored him, his eyes on Bob.

Bob sighed. “One fed talks to her. You. That’s it.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“And I stay,” Bob added.

Lucas didn’t look happy, but he moved off without argument. Simon opened up the back door to the SUV, reached inside and got out a bottle of water. He flipped open the top, shut the door and handed the water to Fiona. She mumbled her thanks.

“Feeling okay?” Simon asked.

She nodded. The paramedics had checked her over, but, except for a few cuts, scrapes and bruises, she was fine. She’d cleaned up as best she could, and Bob had bullied his way upstairs to his place and fetched her a fresh shirt. It didn’t smell that bad of smoke and it was in better shape than the shirt she’d worn over there that morning, now soaked in Scoop’s blood.

Staring at the sidewalk, sipping her water, Fiona said that she was picking tomatoes with Scoop and humming Irish tunes, and next thing, he flung her behind the compost pile and there was smoke and fire and debris-and blood.

“Did you see anyone before the blast?” Simon asked.

She shook her head.

“What time did you arrive?”

“Around two. I wanted to talk to my dad about our Christmas trip to Ireland. You know Keira’s going with us, right? Our grandmother was born in Ireland, and my dad and her mom are of Irish descent on both sides.”

Simon smiled gently. “I’m familiar with your Irish family roots.”

“I had some information I printed off the Internet about where to have tea in Dublin on Christmas Eve. Doesn’t that sound like fun, having tea in Ireland on Christmas Eve?”

Bob worked harder on his gum. He’d already been through two packs. Simon wouldn’t care about tea in Dublin or anywhere else, but he said, “I can see your dad at high tea, can’t you?”

“He’ll love it.”

“Probably will. So, you got your print-outs together and headed to your dad’s place. Where were you?”

“The Garrison house on Beacon Street. I was practicing harp.”

“Any of your friends there?”

“No, I was alone. Well, except for Owen, but he was upstairs at the foundation offices. He was there when I arrived at ten.” She’d obviously already gone through the timeline. “Mostly I just practiced.”

“Did you take the T over here,” Simon said, “or did you drive?”

“The T. Then I walked. It was a beautiful day. Is.” She sucked in a breath and took a gulp of water. “I feel sick.”

Simon ignored her. Bob would have, too. “Where’d you get on the T?”

“Downtown Crossing. The Orange Line.”

“Anyone get on with you?”

“I think so. I didn’t pay attention. No one stuck out to me.”

“Anyone get off the T with you?”

“No, and no one followed me. I always check. It’s habit.” Her eyes lifted to her father. “My dad taught me to notice things.”

Simon didn’t even glance sideways at Bob, just stayed focused on Fiona. “So, you’re walking toward your dad’s place…”