Читать книгу To Love a Cop - Janice Johnson Kay - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

“WILL YOU LOOK at this,” a complete stranger said reverently.

Only a few feet away, among the crowd in the aisle between vendor tables at this opening day of the gun show, Ethan Winter couldn’t resist taking that look, even if the guy hadn’t been talking to him.

The price tag caught his eye first. $12,500. He had to shake his head, even if it was a Perazzi MX3 ORO twelve-gauge shotgun with original case lying there. Engraving, gold inlays, damn near mint condition.

Still nothing that would tempt him. After a moment, Ethan wandered on, leaving a cluster of men staring covetously at the shotgun and listening to the vendor expound on its virtues. His gaze continued to rove the exhibit hall, and he half listened to the buzz of conversation around him, picking out snippets here and there.

He wasn’t a collector, and wasn’t in the market for a new weapon. Like many in law enforcement, he carried a fourth-generation Glock .40 caliber and was accustomed to its feel at the range and on his hip. He had friends who liked to upgrade more often than he replaced his vehicles, and, sure, there were some nice handguns out there. Once in a while at the range, he’d try out something new and always handed it back without any inclination to whip out his credit card. His Glock had saved his life, and that was good enough for him.

He was here today to keep an eye on the crowd, not the merchandise. It was something of a personal mission he’d taken on the past few years, after watching and reading coverage of too many mass shootings, the weapons purchased at gun shows like this. He hadn’t told anyone else what he was doing. Odds were against him ever witnessing anything significant. Big as this exhibition hall at the Portland Expo Center was, a deranged individual could be buying an armory worth of weapons right this minute two aisles away without him seeing a thing.

Still...there hadn’t been anything special he’d wanted to do today. And you never knew.

To avoid standing out, he needed to look at something besides faces, though. He actually enjoyed studying some of the antique guns. In fact, a minute later he was contemplating a Confederate revolver, imported from England into New Orleans in 1861. He knew the A.B. Griswold revolver was often carried by Confederate officers. This one was in good enough condition to have a price tag of $9,500. He winced again.

“Man, that is so cool.”

He turned slowly, his attention caught by how youthful this voice sounded.

And, yeah, it was a kid standing at the next vendor, looking down at a semiautomatic rifle. Ethan carried a similar one in his police vehicle. The one for sale was equipped with a fixed sight. It looked, and was, lethal, manufactured for the tactical professional. The kid’s expression was eager enough to bother Ethan.

“You don’t look old enough to be shopping for anything like this,” the vendor said easily, and to his credit. Plenty of people brought their kids to gun shows, but Ethan didn’t see a parent nearby.

“Huh?” The boy lifted his head. “Oh, my dad’s around. I was just getting bored.”

“Ah.” The vendor, a middle-aged, balding man, started talking about the DDLE duty rifle’s effectiveness and versatility. The kid seemed to be drinking up every detail.

Ethan drifted on, but not far. He wondered a little about the boy, who, at a guess, might be thirteen, fourteen at the oldest. Hard to tell, when some boys shot up way younger, and others lagged. This one was skinny, five foot seven or eight, with dark hair and eyes. Seemed early for him to be out of school, but middle schools and high schools did let out pretty early in the afternoon. Still, Ethan didn’t see any other kids yet. Today was Friday, and the show had opened at noon. Right now it was—he checked his watch—barely two thirty. Most of the business would come on Saturday and Sunday, although the crowd so far was respectable and he’d seen a few sales taking place already.

The boy moved on, too. He appeared uninterested in the antique weapons, although he paused briefly to study a World War II “Liberator” .45 pistol, a strange looking, stubby weapon made by General Motors to be air-dropped to Resistance fighters in Europe. Maintaining a little distance between himself and the boy, Ethan paused to look at that one, too.

Mostly, the kid was fixated on semiautomatic handguns. The Heckler & Koch VP9, a new Beretta, the oversize Desert Eagle, an HK polymer-frame pistol with a barrel threaded to accept a suppressor.

And fixated was the word. He looked at every one of those damn guns with a hunger that disturbed Ethan. This kid could care less about .22 rifles, hunting rifles, BB guns. Nope, he was fascinated by handguns designed for the sole purpose of killing human beings.

And Dad was nowhere to be seen.

Nothing and no one else caught Ethan’s attention, so he kept wandering at roughly the same speed the boy did. Finally, curiosity overcame him and he stopped right next to the boy, who was currently studying a FNH FNP-40, another polymer handgun.

“I’ve fired that one,” Ethan said with a nod. “Nicely balanced.”

The kid looked at him eagerly. “Really? At the range?”

“Yeah, friend of mine has one. He says it felt like his best friend the first time he shot it.” Ethan was careful to keep his posture relaxed to avoid any hint of threat. He was a big man, towering over the kid.

The boy’s gaze slid to his holstered weapon. “That’s a Glock, isn’t it?” He was hungry still, but there was an extra hint of heat in those dark eyes taking in the butt of the Glock. It was as if he was looking at a favorite food that had made him sick the last time he’d eaten it.

Or maybe I’m imagining things, Ethan thought. “It’s a Glock 22,” he agreed.

“Are you a cop? Lots of cops carry those, don’t they?”

“They do, and I am.” Ethan held out his hand. “Detective Ethan Winter, Portland Police Bureau.”

They shook hands.

“So you don’t wear a uniform anymore? Or is this your day off?”

“It is my day off, but I don’t wear a uniform on the job, either, except for special occasions.”

“Do you work homicide?”

Ethan shook his head. “I may request a transfer there someday, but I’m currently part of the unit that investigates assaults and bias crimes.”

“What are you talking about, bias crimes?”

“We’re plugging up the works here.” Ethan nodded. “Let’s get out of the way so we’re not blocking the table.”

The vendor nodded his appreciation. “Can’t interest you in this FNP, Detective? Since you liked the feel?”

“I’m happy with what I carry. Familiarity is important.”

The man smiled and shrugged both. “Can’t argue with that.”

“What do you mean, familiarity?” the boy demanded as they stepped out of the way of traffic. They’d been close to the end of an aisle, and weren’t far from an exit.

“We don’t draw often except at the range,” Ethan explained. “You don’t want to fumble or hesitate when the moment comes you need to. The more you’ve used a particular weapon, the less you have to think about it, which allows you to focus on the situation.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “So how come you’re here, if you don’t want a new gun?”

Ethan gave his standard response. “I like to keep up on what’s out there.”

“’Cuz cops aren’t the only ones with guns.”

Feeling the rueful twist to his mouth, Ethan scanned the ever-growing crowd filling a hall that had to be sixty thousand square feet or more, packed with weaponry and shoppers. “You could say that.”

“Have you ever been shot?”

Ethan shook his head. Shot at, yes. Which wasn’t the same thing. “Hasn’t happened yet. I try not to make myself a target.” He raised an eyebrow. “You have a name?”

Alarm flickered in the boy’s eyes. “Oh. Um, yeah, but...my dad says I shouldn’t tell strangers my name. You know.” He started shuffling backward. “I should go find Dad now anyway. He might worry. I’ll, um, maybe see ’ya.”

The clear subtext was, But not if I see you first.

He awkwardly flipped a hand and melted into the crowd. Only he didn’t wander slowly and browse this time. He walked fast, casting a couple of looks back over his shoulder.

Ethan went down the next aisle, keeping pace. If the kid thought he’d lost him—

But one of those darted glances back spotted Ethan, who cursed his height, and not for the first time.

Alarm segued into panic, and the boy began pushing through the crowd, his eye fixed on the doors that led outside. He was quick, and small enough to squeeze between people where Ethan had to bull his way, so he reached the exit first.

So much for the fiction of a father elsewhere in the exhibition hall.

Ethan stepped out and momentarily failed to see him. More people were streaming in, either from the parking lot or the covered walkway that led—

Oh, yeah, there he was, and running now.

Ethan broke into a run, too, unsure why he was so determined to get his hands on this kid, but set on it anyway. The boy couldn’t possibly be old enough to drive, which meant a bus or the light-rail.

Sure enough, he was headed for the light-rail station. Ethan didn’t see a train, but knew they ran often between the expo center and downtown, something like every fifteen minutes.

Eight or ten people waited beneath a shelter. No restroom to disappear into. The boy tucked himself behind a family group as if he thought Ethan would assume he belonged.

When he saw Ethan’s jog settle to a purposeful stride, he took a few steps back, his head turning in panic, but, with the rails behind him, there was nowhere to go.

“Excuse me,” Ethan murmured as he sliced through the cluster of people.

“I don’t know this man!” the boy cried. “He’s been following me.” He shuffled his feet, edging behind a beefy guy whose gaze first dropped to the holstered gun on Ethan’s belt, then rose to meet his eyes in challenge.

Ethan dipped a hand in his pocket and held up his badge. “The boy knows why I want to talk to him.”

The kid’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

They all heard the train coming. Ethan latched a hand around the boy’s skinny upper arm.

“I didn’t say you did. But we need to talk.”

“Can’t I just go home?” he begged. “All I wanted was to look.”

“I’ll be glad to take you home,” Ethan agreed.

The white bullet-like light-rail train glided to a stop and disgorged a whole lot of people. Everyone waiting climbed aboard. Ethan turned his young captive back the way they’d come.

He deliberately dawdled so they fell behind the eager beavers headed for the expo center. He had the time now to assess the boy, who was good-looking and dressed in blue jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt and expensive, gleaming white athletic shoes. Common for his age, his feet looked too big to go with the rest of him. This was no homeless kid—somebody bought him nice clothes, kept them clean, trimmed his hair regularly. At first sight, Ethan would have guessed Hispanic, but wasn’t so sure now despite the near-black hair and brown eyes.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me your name?” he asked.

The boy shot him a defiant look. “Why should I?”

“Because I’m a police officer, and I asked. Because I suspect you cut school to come to the gun show.”

Ethan felt like a jerk when the kid’s lower lip trembled.

“Mom is going to be so mad.”

“What about Dad?”

This sidelong look glittered with tears. “Dad’s dead.”

Truth at last. “How old are you?” Ethan asked, more gently.

The answer was a mumble. Ethan raised his eyebrows.

“Eleven.”

He blinked as he calculated. “That means you’re not even in middle school.”

The boy shook his head. “I’m in sixth grade. I left after lunch.”

“It ever occur to you that the school probably let your mother know you’d disappeared?”

His mouth fell open in horror. “I thought since I was there in the morning when they did roll call...”

Ethan nudged him toward the parking lot. “I can pretty well guarantee somebody noticed you weren’t there come afternoon.”

“Oh, man.” He raised desperate eyes to Ethan’s. “Please don’t tell her where I was! She hates guns. She’ll freak!”

“What were you going to tell her if she found out you took off?” he asked, keeping his voice easy to encourage continuing confidences.

“I don’t know.” Back to mumbling. “Just that, like, I had a fight with one of my friends or something.”

Ethan drew him to a stop beside his GMC Yukon. “Here’s your ride.”

His head turned back toward the light-rail station. “I’ll go straight home, I swear! Please, mister. I mean, Detective.”

Ethan shook his head. “We’ll talk to your mom. She may be more understanding than you think she will be.”

“She won’t! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“In,” Ethan said inflexibly, holding open the passenger door.

As he walked around to the driver’s side, he watched through the windshield in case the kid tried to make a break for it. All he did was slump in defeat.

Once Ethan was in, he hit the button to lock the doors. “All right,” he said. “No more dancing around. I need your name.”

The kid jerked a one-shoulder shrug and mumbled again, although this time Ethan heard him. “Jake Vennetti.”

“Vennetti.” Oh, damn. Why hadn’t he seen the resemblance right away? “Your father was Matt Vennetti.”

Jake sneaked a look sidelong with those chocolate-brown eyes just like his father’s. “Yeah.”

Ethan opened his mouth and closed it before he could say aloud what he was thinking. Oh, shit. Jake was right; his mother was going to freak. She had good reason to hate guns.

In fact, this boy, sitting beside Ethan, had to be the one who’d gotten his hands on his father’s service weapon and accidentally shot another kid, who died. From there, the tragedy had cascaded. In the end, Portland Police Bureau Officer Matt Vennetti had ended up killing himself. Not with the same gun, but he’d swallowed a gun nonetheless. It all happened—Ethan wasn’t sure. Five years ago? Six? He knew Matt’s only son was a little boy and not to blame, which wasn’t to say he didn’t blame himself.

“I went to your father’s funeral,” he said quietly. Despite his rage at a man who’d leave that kind of burden on his wife and child. “Your dad and I rode patrol together early on.”

Head ducked, Jake didn’t respond.

Perturbed, Ethan said, “I can look up your address if I have to. Why don’t you just give me directions.”

“Like I have any choice,” the boy spat.

Ethan started the engine. “You didn’t do anything so bad today. I cut school in my time, too.”

Jake turned his head sharply away. Ethan had a bad feeling it was to hide tears.

* * *

WHERE COULD HE BE?

Laura Vennetti paced, her phone clutched in her hand. Fear squeezed her heart. She’d be purely mad instead of scared if Jake had ever done anything like this before, but he hadn’t. It wasn’t like him at all. He was a good student. Never in trouble. She’d fear a kidnapping if a classmate hadn’t reluctantly told the principal that he’d seen Jake get on a city bus.

He’d been gone hours now. School had let out. She’d called all his friends, none of whom would admit to knowing his plans, although it was hard to tell with preteen boys, who seemed to communicate primarily in grunts and hoots.

“I swear I’ll ground him until he leaves for college.” The sound of her voice was meant to fill the silence. Instead, it seemed to echo, leaving her even more conscious of being alone in the house. She reached the back door and swung around to stalk through the kitchen and dining room into the living room. “I won’t let him leave for college. He doesn’t deserve—” Her voice broke.

She’d thought it was dumb for a boy his age to carry a phone, but she had just changed her mind. If he was in trouble, how could he call her? There weren’t many pay phones anymore, and he might not have money with him anyway, and she discouraged him from talking to strangers.

Maybe it was time to report him missing to the police. Her gaze went to the clock on the DVD player. No, it wasn’t even four yet. Kids cut class all the time. Nobody would take her seriously.

Soon.

She heard a deep engine outside and rushed to the front window. A black SUV had pulled up to the curb in front of her house. The passenger side door opened and—

Laura clapped a hand over her mouth. Thank you, God. Thank you. She raced for the front door and flung it open. Her son lifted his head and saw her, then, ducking his head again, trudged across the lawn toward the porch. She was barely aware that a man had gotten out, too, and came around the big SUV to follow Jake.

She planted her fists on her hips in lieu of bounding down the porch steps and snatching him into her arms. “Where have you been? Do you have any idea how scared I was?”

He sneaked a shamed look at her. “I didn’t think the school would call you.”

The man came to a stop behind Jake and laid a large hand on his shoulder. She thought he squeezed, just a little, before letting the hand drop. Laura had to lift her gaze a long way to the man’s face. He was...well, not a foot taller than Jake, but a whole lot taller. He had to be six foot three or four.

Her heart drummed for an entirely different reason now. Calm eyes she thought were hazel held hers. His hair was brown, but not as dark as Jake’s, or as her Italian husband’s had been. He might not be male-model handsome, but came close, with a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones and a high-bridged nose. He had broad shoulders and the long, lean build of a basketball player. Standing so close to him, Jake was dwarfed.

“Jake.” She heard how sharp her voice was. “Come here. Right now.”

The stranger arched dark brows but stayed where he was when Jake slouched his way up the steps onto the porch. She pushed him behind her into the house.

Only then did she see that the stranger wore a gun.

“Who are you?” She sounded hysterical, with good reason.

“Ms. Vennetti.” He nodded. “I’m Detective Ethan Winter, with PPB.”

A police officer had brought her son home. Dread closed her throat. She had to swallow before she could ask, in a harsh whisper, “What did he do?”

“Nothing more serious than cut school.” That slow, deep voice was as calming as his steady gaze. “I was hoping to talk to you for a minute, though.”

She bit her lip and gave a choppy nod. “Come in, then.” She turned to find Jake hovering on the other side of the living room. “Go to your room,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later, after I’ve heard what Detective Winter has to say.”

“I didn’t do—”

“Your room,” she snapped.

His expression stormy, he thought about defying her, but the moment lasted a matter of seconds before he bolted for his bedroom. The door slammed hard enough to make pictures on the wall bounce. Laura closed her eyes, prayed for strength and once again faced the police officer who had brought Jake home.

He stepped inside, his shoulder brushing her, his gaze skimming the room in what she guessed was automatic assessment.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, and closed the front door.

He hesitated momentarily, making her aware none of the furniture was built on a scale for a man his size, then chose one end of the sofa. She sat in her favorite easy chair facing him over the coffee table.

“I knew your husband,” he said abruptly. “We patrolled together for about a year early on in our careers. I’d been on the job a little longer than Matt had, but not much.”

She suddenly felt stripped bare. All she could do was hold up her chin. “So I suppose you know our whole history.”

A couple of lines deepened on his forehead. “Your whole history? No. I remember hearing about the accident, and I was sorry about what happened with Matt. I actually came to the funeral. You and I spoke briefly afterward.”

She had been mercifully numb by that time. She remembered a succession of police officers, all in uniform, one by one expressing their regrets. Some she knew, many she didn’t. She had been grateful they had come. If they hadn’t, who would have? Her own family was so small. And Matt’s—

Laura shook off that memory.

“Where did you find Jake?”

“The gun show out at the Expo Center.”

“What?” She half stood, then made herself resume her seat. Oh, dear God.

“I didn’t recognize him. I was only concerned because I thought he must have cut school.”

“He did.”

He bent his head in agreement. “He admitted he had. He says he’s eleven? I guessed him to be older than that.”

“He’s tall for his age. And...mature looking.” Jake’s looks had come from his dad. The resemblance was becoming more striking all the time. She tried to hide how that made her feel.

Detective Winter sighed and rolled his shoulders a little. “I’ll be honest. I might not have paid as much attention if he’d been looking at BB guns like you’d expect a kid to do. But he wasn’t. He seemed a little too interested in the kind of handgun I carry. I thought you needed to know that he’d cut school because he wanted real bad to finger some Sig Sauers and Berettas and the like.”

She looked pointedly at the big black gun at his hip.

“I carry a weapon because my job demands it,” he said, more mildly than she probably deserved.

After a moment, she nodded.

“Were you aware of his interest, Ms. Vennetti?”

She started to shake her head, squeezed her eyes shut and finally nodded. When she met his eyes, she knew she wasn’t hiding her desperation. But she hadn’t had anybody to talk to about this. Hadn’t wanted anyone else to know. Certainly not her sister or brother-in-law. What if they decided Jake was a danger to their kids?

“I— He was only five and a half when it happened.”

The kindness and sympathy in this man’s expression made her feel shaky. She didn’t want to be weakened, but...was it so bad, just for a minute, to feel grateful for someone who seemed to understand? “A little boy,” he said. “Too young to know the difference between a real gun and a toy gun.”

Her head bobbed. “Yes. Except... The boy who died was Jake’s first cousin, Marco. They were best friends. It was really gruesome. The bullet hit him in the head.” She hardly knew her hand had lifted and that she was lightly touching her cheek, letting him know where the bullet had entered Marco’s head. “I don’t think Jake will ever forget.”

As if she could.

“No.”

“He didn’t see his father, thank heavens. At least Matt didn’t do that to us,” she said bitterly.

“But you found him.”

She shuddered. “Yes.”

Detective Winter swore, rose to his feet and came to her, sitting on the coffee table close enough for him to take her hands. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to carry something like that with you.”

She had the oddest moment of bemusement. A man was holding her hands in a warm, comforting clasp. He leaned forward in concern, so close to her that she saw his eyes were hazel, mostly green streaked with gold, and that his lashes were short but thick. If she were to lift her hand to his hard jaw, she’d feel the rasp of his late afternoon beard growing in.

A near complete stranger was holding her hands.

She could not afford to think of him as a man. He wasn’t here because he was interested in her. He was here because he’d caught Jake at a gun show.

All her fears rushed back. Even so, she couldn’t make herself retreat from that comforting clasp. She looked down to see the way his thumbs moved gently, almost caressingly, on the backs of her hands.

“I put him in counseling, of course,” she said in a stifled voice. “He...regressed, after Matt killed himself.”

“Of course he would.”

She nodded. “But he’s done really well. He makes friends. He’s close to a straight-A student. I thought...I thought we were through any danger period.”

Detective Winter waited with seemingly limitless patience. Ethan, that was his first name, she thought, finding it fit the man.

“Only, recently I’ve caught him watching TV shows he knows I don’t allow. All he seems to want to watch are police shows. There’s that reality one.” He nodded. “And he’s slipped a few times and said things, so I know he’s seeing some pretty violent stuff at friends’ houses. Movies I’d never let him go to or rent. And when the news is dominated by some awful crime, he’ll stay glued to CNN or whatever channel follows it.”

“He’s a teenage boy. His father was a police officer. His interest might be natural.”

“Why would he admire that, given what happened because his father carried a gun?” she said sharply.

Detective Winter’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t say anything. He straightened a little, though, and his clasp on her hands loosened.

“And then I was changing the sheets on Jake’s bed,” she went on, her voice slowing. “I found some gun catalogs under the mattress.” She gave a sad excuse for a laugh. “Playboy magazine wouldn’t have shocked me. These...seemed way more obscene.”

“Understandably.”

“And now this.” She searched his face, as if she’d find any answers.

“Matt must have had friends Jake could talk to about some of this.”

“Friends?” She huffed. “You mean from the department? No, they all did a disappearing act. He was probably their worst nightmare come true. Why hang around to watch the epilogue?”

The detective’s dark eyebrows snapped together. “None of his friends on the job stuck around to be sure you and Jake were all right?”

“No. I quit hearing from the wives right away, too. I definitely embodied their worst nightmares.” She didn’t admit that, as angry as she’d been, Matt’s cop friends and their wives were the last people she’d have wanted to hear from or see. She might have ignored their calls.

Had ignored some.

But there hadn’t been all that many, and they’d tailed off within a couple of weeks. Nobody had been persistent enough to come by when she couldn’t be reached by phone. Out of sight, out of mind.

“You have family?” he asked.

“My sister and her husband and kids. They’re the only reason I didn’t move away. Sometimes I think I should have.”

Those eyes, clear as they were, had somehow softened now. “Fewer reminders.”

“For Jake,” she said briskly, sitting straighter and sliding her hands from his. She watched as he flattened them on his chino-clad thighs, long, taut muscles outlined beneath the cotton fabric. “I could move to Beijing and I wouldn’t forget a thing.”

He saw deeper than she liked. “Matt had a big family.”

“Yes, he did.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember seeing them at his funeral.”

“That’s because they weren’t there.”

“His parents didn’t come to his funeral.”

“Nope.” Anger had long since buried any pain at that loss. She lived with a whole lot of anger. “Neither did a single one of his three brothers and two sisters.”

“They ditched you?” he said incredulously. “Because of a tragic accident?”

“Marco’s father, Rinaldo, is the brother Matt was closest to. They had...a really horrible scene and never spoke again. I thought...after Matt died...” She grimaced. “But no. Either they held Jake responsible even if he was only five years old, or they blamed me.” For good reason.

“What did you say?” This man, this stranger, was glowering at her.

She gaped at him.

“You think it was your fault?”

Oh, no. She’d said that aloud.

But it was the truth.

“I went outside to water the annuals in pots and left two five-year-old boys alone in the house.” For five or ten minutes. That’s all. But it had been long enough. “I should have checked first to be sure Matt locked up his gun. I’d gotten so I usually did, because he was so careless with it. But that one time...that one time...” Her voice wobbled. She couldn’t finish.

He gripped one of her hands again. “Laura. It is Laura, right?”

“How did you know?”

He shook his head. “It stuck in my mind. The gun was Matt’s. Not yours.” His jaw muscles flexed, and his gaze bored into hers. “He’d carried it for years. He was a professional. He knew better. Him leaving that damn gun where his little boy could get his hands on it was not your responsibility.”

There was so much grit in those last words, she quailed. Then she squared her shoulders. “I did a couple of things wrong that, coupled with what Matt did wrong, led to something horrible. I will not forget my part.”

Ethan Winter just shook his head.

“Would you take advice from me?”

She eyed him warily. “It depends what that advice is.”

“I saw Jake’s expression when he looked at those guns today. Whatever is going on in his head is powerful. You’re not going to be able to stamp it out by making guns taboo. I’d strongly suggest you consider enrolling him in a gun safety class—”

This time, she jerked back, pulling her hand from his and curling both hands into fists. “You think I should put a gun in his hands? No! No, no, no. I swore I would never allow one in my house again.” She glared at his holstered weapon. “I shouldn’t have let you in. Not carrying that.”

His eyebrows drew together. The silence bristled with too much said. After a moment he nodded and pushed himself to his feet.

“I’ll leave, then. I think you’re wrong, but you have a right to make the decision.”

Her “thank you” rang of sarcasm.

He took a business card from a pocket. “My cell phone number is on the back. If there’s anything I can do for you or Jake, call.”

She was careful not to let her fingers touch his as she took the card, then looked down at it. Detective Ethan Winter. What did he mean by anything? Would he show up if she needed wood split next winter? A ride to work when her car was in the shop?

“May I say goodbye to Jake?” he asked.

He’d been...nice. She hadn’t. Taking a deep breath, she nodded.

She stayed where he was when he went down the hall. Heard him rap on the door, then the bass rumble of his voice, but couldn’t make out words or hear anything Jake said.

A minute later, the detective came back down the hall. She stood to see him out. He nodded politely as he passed her and crossed the porch, his expression cop-guarded.

“Detective,” she said to his back.

He paused at the foot of the stairs.

She made herself say it. “Thank you. For bringing Jake home, and for listening to me.”

He turned at that, searching her face. “I meant it,” he said. “If he does anything that worries you, or you need to talk, call me.”

Why did he care? The fact that he so obviously did caused a lump to swell in her throat. Around it, Laura said again, “Thank you.”

He dipped his head one more time, acknowledging her words, then crossed her small front yard with his long, fluid stride, got into his SUV and drove away without, as far as she could see, so much as looking back.