been heading.
“Go away!” the older man yelled again.
“Let me try,” a soft voice suggested as Maggie joined him at the solid wood door to the Cape Cod. It was painted black—like the shingles on the roof. And there was no welcome mat.
“I told you to stay in the vehicle,” he reminded her. Even with the squad car not far away, she wasn’t safe; someone could have taken a shot at her as she had crossed the street.
Ignoring him, she knocked on the door. “Mr. Doremire, it’s me—it’s Maggie. Please let us in...”
Inside the house, something crashed and then heavy footfalls approached the door. It was wrenched open, and a gray-haired man stared at them from bloodshot eyes.
Blaine could smell the alcohol even before the man spoke. “Have you heard from him?” he demanded to know.
“Mark has been by to see me,” she said. “At the bank. Is he here?”
“Mark?” the older man repeated, as if he didn’t even recognize the name of his eldest son. “I’m not talking about Mark.”
Did the man have other boys? Maybe there were more Doremires involved than Blaine had realized. Maybe they made up the entire gang.
But Maggie’s brow furrowed with confusion, and she asked, “Who are you talking about?”
“Andy,” Mr. Doremire replied, as if she was stupid. “Have you heard from Andy yet?”
She reached out and clasped the older man’s arm and led him back inside the house. “I’m sorry, Mr. Doremire,” she said as she guided him back into his easy chair. A bottle of whiskey lay broken next to the chair. But no liquor had spilled onto the hardwood floor. He’d already emptied it.
She crouched down next to the old man’s chair and very gently told him, “Andy’s dead. He died in Afghanistan.”
“No!” the gray-haired man shouted hotly in denial. “He didn’t die. That’s just what he made it look like. He’s alive.”
She shook her head, and her brown eyes filled with sympathy and sadness. “No...”
“I’ve seen him,” the man insisted. “He’s alive!”
“No,” she said again. “That’s not possible. His whole convoy died that day. There’s no way he survived.” And her voice cracked with emotion and regret.
Mr. Doremire shook his head in denial and disgust. “That boy wasn’t strong enough for the Marines,” he said. “He had no business joining up. He got scared. He took off. He wasn’t part of that convoy.”
Why was Andy’s father making up such a story? Just because he couldn’t handle his son being dead?
“They wouldn’t have reported that he was dead if they hadn’t been certain,” Maggie continued, patiently. “They wouldn’t have put us through that and neither would Andy.”
“None of the remains recovered have actually been identified, so there is no way of proving that he was part of the convoy,” the older man insisted. “They never even recovered his dog tags.”
“They are still working on DNA,” Maggie said with a slight shudder. “But they know that Andy’s gone...” And from the dismal sound of her voice, she knew it, too.
Blaine hated that she was reliving Andy’s last moments. Or had those actually been his last moments? Was Andy’s father right? Was Maggie’s fiancé still alive? Mr. Doremire had claimed that he’d seen him.
If so, Blaine had another suspect for the robberies—one who had definitely read her letters and knew about the bank’s policies and procedures, and the duties and responsibilities of the assistant manager.
“Will you be okay in here?” Blaine asked Maggie.
She nodded. “Of course.”
But she stared up at him with a question in her eyes as if wondering where he was going...
“I have to make a call,” he said.
From his years as a marine, he had connections, people he could call to verify if Andy Doremire had been identified among the convoy casualties. Maybe they hadn’t identified the remains immediately after the explosion, but in the past six months they would have. And he couldn’t trust that Mr. Doremire’s drunken claims were valid. Or was Andy alive and robbing banks?
* * *
MAGGIE BIT HER bottom lip to stop herself from calling out for Blaine. She didn’t want to be left alone with Andy’s dad and his outrageous story. He was drunk, though. That had to be why he was talking such nonsense.
“He’s calling someone in the military,” Dustin Doremire said. “He’s going to talk to some marines.”
Blaine had been a marine. He would know whom to talk to.
“Probably,” she agreed. “He’s wasting his time, though.” Andy was dead. Therefore, he was not robbing banks—as Blaine probably now suspected.
“They’re not going to tell him anything,” Mr. Doremire said with a derisive snort. “It’s a cover-up.”
So he was drunk and paranoid. “What are they covering up?” she asked. She wasn’t even sure who “they” were supposed to be. First Andy had faked his death and now someone else was covering it up?
“You know what they’re covering up,” he accused her, suddenly turning angrily on her.
She edged back from his chair, not wanting to be so close to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That was definitely the truth.
“Andy told you everything,” he said. “You know...”
But now she wondered. Had Andy told her everything? He had never mentioned his father drinking so much. Maybe it had started only after his death. But now she wondered—because she hadn’t come over to Andy’s house very often. He had always come to hers. And if his car was broken down and she had to pick him up, he met her on the street.
Maybe she hadn’t been the only reason Andy had joined the Marines. Maybe he hadn’t done it just to support her, the way he had old-fashionedly claimed he’d wanted to do. Maybe he had also joined to escape his father.
“That boy loved you so much,” Mr. Doremire continued. “He was crazy about you.”
Andy had loved her. If only she could have loved him the same way...
The older man uttered a bitter laugh. “The boy was such a fool that he couldn’t see you didn’t feel the same way about him.”
“I cared about Andy,” she insisted. “He was my best friend.” And she would forever miss him and she would regret that his son or daughter would never know him—would never know what a sweet guy he’d been.
“But you didn’t love him,” the older man accused her, as if she’d committed some crime. “It’s your fault, girl. It’s all your fault.”
“What’s my fault?” she asked.
“It’s your fault he joined the Marines, trying to prove he was man enough for you.” Mr. Doremire shook his head. “He wasted his time, too. You never looked at him like you’re looking at that man...” He gestured toward where Blaine had gone out the open front door.
“That man is an FBI agent,” she said. “He’s investigating the robberies at the banks where I’ve worked.” He had to have heard about the robberies; they’d made the national news.
But the older man just stared bleary-eyed at her. Had he even known she worked at a bank?
“I don’t care who the hell he is,” Mr. Doremire replied. “He’s not going to be raising my grandchild.”
She