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tactical boots. Perfect. Comfortable, the AFO would fit, no problem, and while they’d be a bit clunky—
    “Mom, no,” Megan said from the door behind her. Her tone held all the outrage of a fourteen-year-old fashionista witnessing a crime against style. “Drop the boots and back away from the closet.”
    “I need to wear something—” Lucy protested, holding on to the boots. Last time she’d worn them, she’d been with the Pittsburgh FBI SWAT team, roping out of a helicopter during an urban combat training exercise. Such fun.
    The stab of fire from her left foot reminded her that those days were gone forever.
    “So, is this Beacon Group an accounting firm?” Megan asked, scrutinizing Lucy’s black pantsuit. “Or is this new job of yours as an undertaker?”
    “It’s my first day. I’m not sure what the dress code is.” And she wanted to make a good impression.
    Until now the Beacon Group had functioned as an information clearing house, coordinating efforts of law enforcement agencies, nonprofits like the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, and a myriad of volunteer-run groups. After being inundated with requests for investigatory assistance—not uncommon in these days of budget cuts and refocusing of priorities on domestic terrorism and violent crimes—Valencia Frazier, the owner, decided to establish a field investigation team as a pilot program.
    Led by Lucy. No badge, no arrest authority, no resources. Yet, she was supposed to build a team that could crack cases years—decades even—gone cold, often without access to the original evidence or witnesses, with only case reports and photographic documentation. Sometimes not even that.
    Putting together puzzles with no idea what the picture on the box was, with missing pieces as well as pieces from other puzzles jumbled into the mix.
    Almost as much fun as roping out of a helo in Lucy’s mind.
    “What’s their sense of style like?” Megan asked, taking the tactical boots from Lucy.
    Lucy had run a background check on Valencia Frazier and her organization, knew their annual budget and closure rates, but the report hadn’t mentioned anything about a “sense of style.”
    “How are their offices decorated?” Megan translated. “What did the people you met there wear?”
    “The offices are in a Queen Anne house that’s over a hundred years old. Valencia’s family—the Fraziers—were among the original settlers at Beacon Falls.”
    “So old and stuffy, uptight?” Megan grimaced. “Maybe undertaker does fit.”
    “No. Valencia’s not like that. She’s—” Lucy hesitated. “Elegant. Understated. Audrey Hepburn—but in her fifties.”
    “Audrey Hepburn would never be caught dead in a pantsuit. Let’s start with losing the blazer.” Before Lucy could protest, Megan slid it off her shoulders.
    “I’m not leaving my weapon behind.” As a former federal agent, Lucy was able to continue to carry her guns—usually she had at least two on her person and one in her bag. She’d given up her ankle holster and switched her body gun to the sleeker Beretta instead of the .40 caliber Glock the FBI had issued, but no way in hell was she walking around naked.
    Megan stepped back. “No. Keep the gun. That’s your style—badass, kick-butt detective. Like those black-and-white movies you and Dad love so much. In fact, a shoulder holster would be sexy.”
    “And totally impractical.”
    “Just saying. Wait, I have an idea.” She disappeared, heading down the hall to her room.
    Lucy glanced in the mirror. She was thirty-nine, would be forty in a few months, and her teenaged daughter was dressing her. But, she had to admit, the blouse and slacks without the jacket did kind of work. She wore no jewelry except her wedding ring and a paracord survival bracelet Megan had given her to replace the one that had saved Lucy’s life back in January. This new one was black threaded through with silver wire that would make for a perfect