She parked the car in front of the old carriage house now turned into garages and a workshop and saw that several people were there ahead of her. She used her key to open the door into the mudroom of the mansion and a little chime was heard. An instant later a broad-shouldered muscular man a little under six feet and in his thirties emerged from an inner room. He was holding a cup of tea in one hand and a customized nine-millimeter pistol in the other, and that was pointed at Reggie’s chest. He was dressed in tight-fitting, snake-hipped corduroy pants, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and slim black leather loafers with no socks despite the damp chill that was normal for Harrowsfield even in the heat of summer. His fierce dark eyebrows nearly met in the middle of his forehead and his shaggy brown hair hung down to them.

On seeing her he slipped the gun in his shoulder holster, grinned, and took a sip of his tea. Whit Beckham said, “Eh, Reg, you shoulda rung up when you hit the gateposts. Almost shot you. Be in a funk for weeks if I did that.” His robust Irish accent had softened over the last few years to where Regina could understand almost all of what he said without the services of a translator.

She slipped off her jacket and hung it on a wooden peg on the wall. She was dressed in faded jeans, a burgundy lightweight turtleneck sweater with the collar turned up, and black ankle boots. Her hair was returned to its original shade of rich dark brown and was secured at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell clip. She wore no makeup, and as she stepped into the light thrown through the windows, one could see, though she was only twenty-eight, the beginnings of a fine web of lines around her wide, intense eyes.