“Wow.”

Jackie sat in the passenger seat of Chessie’s Caddie, her eyes glued to a stately brick Colonial as they pulled around the curving driveway.

She’d known the home values in Potomac were no joke, but this baby had to be at the higher end of the scale.

“I bet it’s 10,000 square feet,” she said.

“Close, 9,600. I checked the stats before I picked you up. Six bedrooms, five bathrooms and a guest house around back.”

A low whistle sounded from the back seat where Beck had squeezed himself to the floorboard. He hadn’t been happy about being left out, but they couldn’t be dragging the murder suspect along on interviews.

Plus, after the Reiki-gone-wrong fiasco the evening before, his hands all over her – all over – she needed him out of her range of sight. And not distracting her.

Even looking at him challenged her. Physically and emotionally. Her out-of-character and completely spontaneous hookup with him twelve years ago taught her hard lessons. The first being that a casual sexual encounter changed her life. She couldn’t allow herself to be that careless. Or vulnerable.

Particularly with Beck and the flood of lust he sparked in her. Proving his innocence meant his lawyer – namely her – needed to be focused.

Not horny.

When it came to this interview with Rachael Travathian, the best Jackie could do was compromise and allow him to listen in via the microphone tucked into her jacket pocket. Annabelle had no family they could talk to, outside of Byron, so the next step was to check out Dikko under the guise of talking to Annabelle’s friend. A friend who just happened to be at the same bachelor auction.

Chessie pulled around to the front, forgoing the side area with the three-car garage and a wide expanse for parking. A flashy red sports car – possibly a Ferrari, but what did Jackie know? – sat in front of one of the garage bays.

“Nice ride,” Chessie said.

“Any idea what they paid for this house?”

“It was listed for five mill three years ago. I’ll dig around and see what the actual selling price was.”

“That’s okay. I was just curious.”

Decorative clusters of columns accented the covered porch, each with four posts that gave the home an elegant, intimidating feel.

Maybe that’s what the Travathians wanted. For anyone who entered their world to feel the full brunt of their wealth. And try to keep up.

The front door opened and a woman wearing a maid’s uniform – unbelievable – stood in the entry staring out at the strange car in the driveway.

“Jesus,” Chessie said. “The help answering the door? It’s like a scene from Gone With the Wind.”

Beck let out a snort and Jackie fought the urge to look back. “Beck, stay in here, out of sight. God help us if anyone walks up and checks out this car.”

Jackie exited, adjusting her jacket sleeves before turning back for her briefcase. “Hello,” she called. “My name is Jackie DelRay. I’m here to see Mrs. Travathian. I called earlier.”

“Yes, she’s expecting you.”

Chessie made his way around the car and motioned Jackie ahead. They climbed the brick stairs where large pots of overflowing flowers greeted them. The pots alone had to be $500. Selling helmets to the government must have been profitable.

I’m in the wrong line of work.

The woman ushered them into the first room on the left. Not quite a living room, but large enough to fit an upholstered sofa with two giant wing backed chairs. Her mother’s house had a room like this. Mom called it the quick-stay room. Cozy enough to entertain a few guests she didn’t necessarily want staying and close enough to the front door to shuttle them out in a hurry.

“May I get you anything?” The woman asked. “Coffee? Water?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

“I’m good,” Chessie added.

“Please have a seat. Madam will be with you in a moment.” The woman offered a little bow before taking her leave and Jackie fought the eyeroll. How effing pretentious could these people be? And this poor woman had to put up with this nonsense.

“Frankly, my dear,” Chessie muttered, “I don’t give a damn.”

She nudged him with her elbow. “No kidding. Still, knock it off with the Gone with the Wind crap.”

He pointed to the sofa. “Let’s take the sofa.”

“Why?”

“From there we can see the door. Psychological advantage. She can’t see what’s coming behind her.”

Power play. Excellent. “I do love you, Chesley.”

Before Chessie could unleash one of his smartass comments, a tall woman, maybe early forties, with sleek auburn hair and glowing skin, entered. The glow may have been courtesy of her expertly applied makeup because up close, her shadowed eyes indicated a lack of sleep.

They stood and she held her hand out.

“Hello. I’m Rachael.”

“I’m Jackie DelRay. This is my associate, Chesley.”

Early in her career, Jackie learned referring to her investigator as an associate provided a better chance of loosening lips. People tended to clam up at his actual title.

“Please, sit.” Rachael smoothed her pristine pencil skirt, giving them a view of her ample cleavage under the extra undone button on her blouse.

Hopefully, Chessie wouldn’t need oxygen after this. Jackie glanced at him and his smirk was more nice-try-lady than lust.

Rachael eased into the chair and did some minor wardrobe adjusting before settling in for their chat.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Jackie said.

“Of course. You said it was about Annabelle.” She set her hand on her chest, closed her eyes and breathed deep. “I still can’t believe it. We were just together.”

Maybe she did have a little Scarlett O’Hara in her. Jackie waited for her to open her eyes, but when the woman continued to sit in some sort of grief-inflicted meditative state, Jackie forged ahead. “I understand you attended the charity auction with Annabelle.”

Rachael’s eyes fluttered open, focusing on Chessie as she dragged her hand down her chest and across one breast. Oh, she liked to rile men up, didn’t she? Some women were like that. Jackie had never been one of them. She was lucky not to have spinach in her teeth.

“I did,” Rachael said. “We were friends and enjoyed doing things like that together.”

“How did you meet?”

Might as well clarify that, in case they’d been friends prior to marrying their spouses.

“Our husbands. They were in the military together. They’ve remained friends all these years.”

“I see.”

Chessie shifted in his seat, drawing Rachael’s attention. “Did Annabelle seem upset at the auction? Anything bothering her?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. The divorce was taking its toll. They were fighting a lot.”

“About?”

“Money, of course.”

Of course. “They were having trouble coming to a settlement?”

“Yes. I never asked for particulars. So crass. But she did mention there were issues related to jointly-owned stock.”

A chime sounded and Jackie glanced to the hallway.

“That’s the garage door,” Rachael said. “My husband is home.”

“Hon?” a man called.

Beck better have stayed down and out of sight when Travathian pulled up the drive. Then again, if he’d checked out the Caddie and seen Beck, he wouldn’t be coming in the side door. He’d be busting in the front.

Maybe they’d get lucky and have a two-fer with Mr. Dikko Travathian and his wife.

“In here, baby.”

Seconds later, a man strutted into the room and Jackie instantly recognized his dark features from the photos they’d found on the internet.

“I didn’t realize we were expecting guests,” he said to Rachael.

“Darling,” she said “this is Jackie DelRay and her associate, Chesley. They’re investigating Annabelle’s murder.”

When Jackie and Chessie made a move to stand, he held his hand up. “Not necessary.” He shook their hands. “I’m Dikko Travathian. You from homicide?”

Uh, no. “I’m an attorney,” Jackie said. “Beckett Pearson is my client.”

The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees, but the Travathians, well, these people were no slouches. Rachael pushed her shoulders back.

“I…” Rachael cleared her throat. “I assumed you were from the prosecutor’s office. You didn’t specify.”

True. When Jackie had called, all she’d said was she was a lawyer. She just hadn’t mentioned for whom.

And really, she had no answer for the socialite.

Mr. Travathian cleared his throat. “Doesn’t matter. How can you defend that son of a bitch?”

Ah, the cocktail party question, as it was known in the world of defense attorneys. “Mr. Travathian, if you were unjustly accused of a crime, wouldn’t you want an attorney?”

“Whatever,” he said.

Jackie unbuckled the front clasp of her briefcase and retrieved a copy of the photo of Byron, Dikko, and the President. “Mr. Travathian, do you remember where this was taken?”

He snatched the picture from her. “Jesus. I haven’t seen this in years. Yeah, I remember. It was a get-together.”

“Pretty fancy since you’re all in tuxedos.”

“A fundraiser, for Senator Adams, if I remember right.”

“I understand you and Director Lockhart were already friends, but what about the President? Did you know him as well?”

“Nah. Met him that day. Byron introduced us. They served together too. Murphy was his commanding officer. Ironic, no? The whole Commander in Chief thing?”

That was one word for it.

“Are you friends?”

“The President?” He shrugged. “Before he took office, we saw each other on occasion. What does that have to do with Annabelle’s murder?”

The blare of a ringtone filled the space and Travathian unclipped his cell from his waist holder. He checked the screen. “I gotta take this.” He glanced at his wife, then back to Jackie. “We’re done here.”

Following orders, Rachael popped out of her chair. “I’ll see you out.”

Jackie clucked her tongue at Chessie. “Meeting is over, I guess.”

“You guessed right,” Travathian said.

Smartass. He disappeared down the long hallway, ducking into a side room while his wife swung the front door open.

“You know,” she said, her tone clipped and more than a little pissy, “you should have told me who you were. I hope this isn’t the way you normally do business.”

“Mrs. Travathian, I’m doing my job. I have a client to protect.”

Rachael peered down the hallway, then leaned closer. “You’re client is a mur-der-er. He killed my friend. I feel like I’m betraying Annabelle’s memory just talking to you.”

“Mr. Pearson didn’t kill her.”

“Oh, come on. He was the last one with her. It’s obvious. She probably refused his advances and…” she shivered and brought her hand to her mouth. “I can’t even think about it. About what she went through.”

Throughout her years as a prosecutor Jackie had seen just about every phase of grief. Anger being one of them. As much as Jackie believed Beck to be innocent, Mrs. Travathian had lost her friend. And Beck, reasonably so, was a suspect.

She needed to smooth things with Rachael. At least enough where she might be able to call on the woman again for information.

Jackie touched the woman’s arm. “I am very sorry for your loss. This can’t be easy. If I’ve made it any more difficult, well, I apologize for that also.”

Always one to run for it when it came to emotions, Chessie jerked a thumb outside. “I’ll, uh, wait in the car.”

Rachael stepped back, placing one hand on the door. “You should go. I can’t talk about this anymore. There’s nothing to say. He killed her. And...and...”

Tears blurted from her eyes and guilt slammed Jackie. Dammit.

“I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that, and I believe you.” Rachael hiccupped. “I do, but it won’t bring her back. I miss her so much and you’re trying to free her killer.”

“I want to find her killer as much as you do. My guy is not him. Don’t you want to be sure? Not wonder in ten years if the right man is behind bars?”

“Of course. I’ll do anything to make sure of that.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

Rachael swiped at her tears and glanced back down the hall.

“I’ll go,” Jackie said. “I don’t want to cause a problem for you.”

“Thank you. My husband is...protective.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Jackie stepped onto the porch.

“Ms. DelRay?”

“Yes?”

“I want to find her killer too. Even if that means talking to you again.”

“You’re willing to do that?”

Her eyes darted toward the room where Dikko had disappeared and she lowered her voice. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help find Annabelle’s killer.”

---

They picked up gyros at a mom-and-pop deli not far from the Travathian mansion and Chessie headed to Jackie’s place. The aroma of onions, meat, and tzatziki filled the car, and Beck’s knees hit the back of Jackie’s seat even though she’d pulled it all the way forward.

Aside from their brief exchange that morning, she’d been totally incommunicado about what had passed between them the previous night at his place, back to all-business once more. He couldn’t blame her, but this rollercoaster of lust and flirting was taking its toll. He’d tossed in his big bed all night, knowing she was just down the hall. Poor Tink had finally gotten tired of his restlessness and slept under the bed.

Jackie had a lot on the line with him and his case, and so far, their leads for finding the real killer weren’t panning out. She had Chessie work his contacts regarding Annabelle’s case, but he’d claimed there had been no updates outside of the leaked test results from Beck’s jacket. Annabelle’s blood was confirmed. The police were convinced he was the killer. They weren’t wasting precious man hours searching for anyone else, and even if they had other leads, they weren’t sharing the information with Jackie.

Beck’s phone buzzed. He shoved aside one of the blue-and-white striped bags and fished it out of his pocket. Taylor.

“Hey, boss. What’s up?”

“I’m back.” Her voice was strained. “We need to talk.”

“I’m on the road right now. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”

“Now would be better.”

Since the press had been camped on his doorstep, she’d probably heard about the blood test results. He’d prepared her for this, but she still sounded shook up. “I’ve got it under control, Taylor. I know it looks bad, but—”

“It doesn’t just look bad, Beck.” She gave a heavy sigh. He could see her in his mind’s eye, fiddling with the ponytail she usually wore. When she got stressed, she liked to twirl the ends around her fingers. “It is bad. Lockhart just gave me a heads-up. You’re officially suspended come tomorrow morning. The email will go out to everyone at 8 am.”

His gut did a slide toward his knees, even though it was no surprise. Being an agent was everything to him. Still, it was important not to let Taylor know he was sinking deep. “We expected this, Taylor.”

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone knows you didn’t kill Annabelle.” Obviously, ‘everyone’ didn’t include the police. “Byron’s just looking for a scapegoat because his ego’s bruised that Annabelle bought you at the bachelor auction. Has your attorney found any leads on the real killer?”

“We’re working on it.” Taylor had plenty on her plate and he didn’t want her worrying about him. “I’m sorry my caseload is getting dumped on you and the others. You should put in a request for Tilda LeMars from Leo’s group. I worked with her on the Sanderson case. She’s good with investigations as well as behavioral analysis.”

“Quit worrying about me and the team. We’ll be fine. And you know it will be a cold day in hell before I ask the Golden Boy to lend me one of his profilers.”

“I’ll wrap this up as fast as I can, but you probably should…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, so he had to force the words out. “Plan for the worst.”

“Bullshit. I don’t do worst-case scenarios and you know it. I’m going to work with Grey and see what we can do, okay? There’s got to be something.”

As they rounded the corner onto Jackie’s street, Chessie said, “Whoa,” under his breath, and Beck seconded that with a, “Cripes. What does she want?”

Taylor asked what was going on and Beck told her he had to go. He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket. Fucking A.

Across from Jackie’s house, taking up two parking spaces, was a large red, white, and blue van with WJTA 7 News and a picture of a camera painted on the side. The local affiliate covered the greater DC area. The brunette who manned the eleven o’clock news desk, Debra Johansen, leaned against the rear doors, staring at a cell phone. Like a wolf catching scent of its prey, her head came up when she noticed their car.

“I know what she wants,” Jackie said, a hint of rebellion in her tone. She unsnapped her seatbelt and rolled her shoulders back. “After this morning, she wants a follow-up sound bite, and I’m going to give it to her.”

Chessie snickered, but Beck made a fist, crinkling the top of the bags in his lap. His privacy had always been important to him and he cringed at the thought of Jackie—once again—putting herself out there for target practice. “You’ve already chased off reporters. Johansen’s going to try and trip you up, Jackie. Just ignore her.”

She leaned slightly forward in her seat and motioned Chessie to pull up behind the van. “Don’t sweat it. I’ve handled Debra before. We can use her as much as she wants to use us.”

Chessie eased the car to a stop, invading the reporter’s space with the bumper. She straightened, a look of surprise on her face, and took a step back.

Beck put a hand on Jackie’s shoulder, anchoring her to the seat. “I’ll handle Debra. You hold the food.”

He smacked the three blue and white bags into her lap and left her gaping as he bailed from the back seat.

Debra sent a threatening look at Chessie and his bumper, then turned her wolf eyes on Beck. “Agent Pearson—or should I say, Mr. Pearson, since I hear you’re suspended from the FBI. I’m doing a feature story tomorrow on our True Crime segment about Annabelle Lockhart’s murder. Would you like to give a quote? We could sit down together and I could get your side of the things.”

She’d already heard about his suspension? How the hell had that happened? “It’s still Agent Pearson at the moment, and no, I’m not giving you a quote or an interview, so please don’t harass my attorney by parking outside her home all night. You’re wasting your time.”

Her ruby-red lips parted and showed teeth far too white to be natural. “I was sure you’d want to discuss your side of things and help our viewers understand your family, but I guess you don’t care about them, do you?”

His gut did that downward slide again and he sent her a quizzical look. “My family?”

A car door slammed behind him as Debra withdrew a folded paper from inside her coat. “I received an email with a whole lot of juicy information on their criminal histories. Several of them have long rap sheets, and a couple are wanted by the very organization you work for, isn’t that correct?”

Everything in him joined his stomach down at his ankles. He felt Jackie closing in, and a healthy dose of anger shot up his spine.

This was one of the reasons his privacy had always been important, and why he’d distanced himself from his parents and siblings, and how ironic — he suddenly felt protective of them. “Who is the email from?”

“That’s enough,” Jackie said. “Back in the car, Beck.”

Debra ignored Jackie. “It’s from a free hotmail account that was apparently deleted right after the email was sent. The person used a fictitious name. Guess they wanted to stay anonymous, especially seeing as how you’re still walking the streets.”

Setting hands on hips so he didn’t snatch the paper from her, he called up his Bureau face and gave her a smirk. “An anonymous emailer? You really expect me to believe that? Come on, Debbie. You went digging and came up with some dirt on my family — big deal. At least own up to the fact you have no legitimate outside source for your information. And I don’t buy for a minute that you want your viewers to understand my family, so save it.”

The smile flatlined. “I can assure you, the email is—”

He didn’t let her finish. “Let me guess, you’re getting older and your fan base has declined, so you’re hoping to jumpstart your flailing career with a shocking story that has nothing to do with the truth and everything to do with ratings.” Her face blanched. Bingo. “Newsflash, you’re not getting promoted to that prime six o’clock slot, regardless of the scandal you try to create over Annabelle’s death, and I’m sure as shit not helping you drag her family or mine through the mud. You want to be a respected investigative reporter? Go find a real story that isn’t handed to you on a silver platter. And lay off the sugar and carbs. You’re aging prematurely but a healthier diet will help slow the wrinkles.”

Turning away from the woman’s shocked face, he took Jackie’s elbow and helped her across the street. Chessie locked the car with a bleepbleep and jogged to catch up with them.

Once inside, they all shed their coats. Jackie peeked out the window. “Well, I should yell at you for pissing off a reporter, but nice job taking her down a notch. She’s leaving.” She turned and circled a finger at Beck. “Way to use the aging card. Ouch. You know where to hit a girl where it hurts.”

“It wasn’t a card.” He headed to the kitchen table where Chessie was digging into his bag. Anger sizzled and popped in his veins. First the news about his suspension, and then a reporter ready to reveal the ugly truth about his family on the Capitol’s nightly news. He wanted to punch something to release his pressure valve, but doing so in front of Jackie and Chessie would let them see how much Debra had gotten to him. How much the news of his suspension had gotten to him. “It’s Behavioral Analysis 101. We don’t just learn how to shoot a gun at the Academy, you know. We learn how to read people and figure out their motivations as well.”

Jackie grabbed sodas from her fridge and handed them out. “Is it true? What she said about your family?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” He unwrapped his gyro, picked up a tomato slice that fell out, and made work of rearranging the meat and onions. The embarrassment that discussing his family invoked surfaced. “Doesn’t affect the case.”

“Kind of does,” Chessie said around a mouthful. “Paints you as having the potential for criminal activity.”

Beck chewed a bite, the flavor flat on his tongue. Chessie was right, but damn it. The implications of his family’s business aside, he had a spotless record. All these years of hiding the facts about them…was it all for nothing?

He set down his sandwich, sipped his soda. Snuck a glance at Jackie.

Yep, he could tell by the look in her eyes, she wanted—needed—to know.

“Drug paraphernalia.” He glanced between Jackie and Chessie, neither of them missing a beat as they continued to chow down, eyes on him as he admitted the truth. “My family was into drugs, but they made money selling paraphernalia. Pipes, tubing, Bunsen burners, you name it. Instead of Legos and building blocks, my siblings and I were raised sorting and bagging that stuff to be sold. There’s a lot of money to be made in the drug world without dealing them.”

Chessie made an affirmative grunt. “It’s a profitable service industry with less hard time if you’re arrested.”

“They expanded during slow times,” Beck said. “Stealing from neighbors, identity theft, heading to the nearest chainstore and ‘accidentally’ falling so they could sue. You name it, they’ve probably used it as a way to make money.”

Jackie nodded, digging into her salad. “Who do you think sent the email?”

That was it? No judgments? No pity? Beck sat forward and picked up his sandwich again.

“My family’s run-ins with the law are public record. Debra went digging and wants to make out she has an independent source.” A thought occurred. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Jackie’s fork halted midway to her mouth.

Beck put down his sandwich, his anger morphing into a red-hot cloud of disbelief. Instead of profiling the reporter, he should be profiling the Director of the FBI. “Lockhart is sending out the official notice about my suspension first thing in the morning. That’s what Taylor called about. Byron notified her today so she could get her ducks in a row to break it to the team before the information goes wide. No one else should know, but Debra did.”

Chessie shrugged. “She got a source at the Bureau?”

Beck shoved his chair back, no longer hungry. “Of course she does. Byron Lockhart. He put her on to the story about my family as well as telling her about my suspension.”

“So he’s lining up his ducks,” Jackie said. “He either believes you are the murderer, or—”

“He’s deflecting and framing me to look like it.” Beck hopped up from the chair and paced away, pulling out his phone.

“Who are you calling?” Jackie asked.

The man he needed answered on the first ring. “Grey?” Beck asked. “I need to borrow Teeg again.”

“I’m glad you called. Is your attorney nearby?”

“Yeah.” He pressed a button and set the phone on the table amidst the food. “You’re on speaker. What is it?”

“Teeg pulled tax returns for Travathian International. They netted 200 million last year and did over 100 million in the first two quarters of this year, most of it in government contracts for helmets.”

Beck let out a low whistle. That was a lot of money. “Good old Dick knows Byron Lockhart, and Rachael claims she and Annabelle were good friends, which holds weight since they were at the auction together. Is it possible Byron helped Dick get those government contracts?”

“Might be worth looking into.”

Jackie grabbed her phone and appeared to be making notes to herself, her fingers flying over the keys.

“Lockhart is still gunning for me,” Beck told Grey, “and he’s getting more creative. If anyone had the means, motive, and opportunity to kill Annabelle, it was him, but he’s using his power and status to frame me. I need to find out if he’s leaking information to reporters about this case, and I’d like to turn the tables on him. Dig into his closets and make him squirm. Can Teeg look into his finances? I want to see if there’s anything that looks like bribe money or gifts to the Lockharts for helping Dick secure those contracts.”

Chessie grunted a laugh. “Dick. I like it.”

The sound of paper being shuffled came over the line from Grey’s end. “I already took the liberty of having Teeg pull Byron’s tax returns. He was an early investor in Dikko’s company twenty years ago, and in fact, didn’t sell off those shares until right before he ended up in the director’s chair.”

That got Jackie’s attention. Her head snapped up. “Dikko never mentioned that.”

Teeg, who must have been close to Grey, piped up. “Lockhart made a cool ten million from it.”

Damn. The Director was a millionaire? Who knew? He must have been squirreling it away, since he sure didn’t act like a rich man.

“Was Annabelle going to see any of that in the divorce?” Beck asked.

“Haven’t dug into the divorce proceedings yet,” Grey said. “But I’ll put Mitch on it and see what we can find.”

Beck was suddenly ravenously hungry again. “Thanks, Grey. I’ll be in touch.”

“One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Taylor hired Pasche & Associates to handle your PR. Expect a call from Fallyn tonight.”

PR? Jesus, what was his life coming to? “Can she handle nosy reporters who want to expose my family’s criminal histories?”

Fallyn Pasche was known around DC as the scandal lady. She hadn’t met a crisis she couldn’t resolve.

“I believe that’s right up her alley,” Grey said. “Is there a particular reporter leading the charge?”

Beck filled him in on Debra Johansen and the story she was after. “Obviously, the FBI did an extensive background check on me before they let me into the Academy so the higher-ups know all about my family’s criminal enterprises. I think Lockhart leaked the information to Johansen, and possibly others, to continue his smear campaign against me and set me up. The story breaks tomorrow.”

“I’ll call Fallyn and let her know. I suspect she’ll eat Miss Johansen alive.”

Beck disconnected, feeling his anger subside a bit. Jackie started handing out orders before he could sit down.

“Finish up, Chessie. We’re going back to talk to Dikko. Then tomorrow, I want you to look into Annabelle’s relationships—family, friends, coworkers, the whole ball of wax. Beck, you talk to Ms. Pasche and stop that reporter completely or find a way to spin that story, got it?”

Beck picked up his sandwich. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Fallyn Pasche, but it was his family and he had to do what he could to protect them from this.

He didn’t want to get hurt by their life choices yet again, especially with something as huge as a murder case hanging over his head, but he also didn’t want reporters sniffing around and making their lives hell either. He’d given them plenty of grief over the years to clean up their acts, but the press would be merciless and go after them for no other reason than to sensationalize a story.

Beck bit into his sandwich. Once again, right or wrong, he had to protect his family.