Читать книгу To Love a Cop - Janice Johnson Kay - Страница 9
ОглавлениеTHE WAITRESS SLID the plate with his food in front of Ethan, and he glanced up from his phone. “Thanks.”
Damn, had her breast brushed his shoulder, or had he imagined it?
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, her voice just a little sultry.
Maybe she couldn’t help sounding that way.
“Not right now. Thanks.”
The hamburger and French fries smelled really good. He set aside the phone, on which he’d been checking email. A day off didn’t mean he didn’t want to know what he was missing. Along with several other active cases, he had been working a disturbing series of residential vandalisms. Four so far. All the owners had last names that sounded Jewish. Most of the shit he dealt with these days was anti-gay, with some anti-Muslim and anti-black thrown in for variety. Anti-Semitic, that was more unusual, in this part of the country anyway.
The ironic thing was, only two of the families were actually practicing Jews. The husband and father whose home had been hit most recently had shaken his head in bewilderment. “I’m Lutheran. The family has intermarried so much since my great-great-whatever came through Ellis Island, calling me Jewish is like calling some mutt at the animal shelter a golden retriever when he’s short-haired, has stubby legs and stand-up ears but just happens to be yellow.” His face had hardened. “My last name is Finkel, but until now that didn’t mean anything.”
The swastika spray painted in red on his driveway had been blurred by water shooting from the firefighters’ hoses, but he hadn’t been able to look away from it. Ethan didn’t blame him. He’d asked and learned that the Finkel coming through Ellis Island had emigrated in late 1937 from Austria. Just in time.
This was the first fire that had been set. The punk or punks doing this had used spray paint, thrown eggs and pitched rocks through the windows of the first couple houses. The third had included a mannequin left sprawled on her back on the lawn with her legs splayed, her head bald and her teeth removed. She’d worn a yellow armband with the Star of David. The implications and the threat were clear. These vandals had done their research.
Ethan still had that mannequin on his mind. No stores had reported a break-in or a display mannequin stolen, but he kept thinking that wasn’t an easy thing to get your hands on, especially if you were a teenager. Order one online? What if Mom is the one home when it arrives? No. In pockets of time, he’d made calls to stores, asking whether they’d had one disappear. If he could find out, it would give him a string to pull.
The few witnesses thought, as he did, that the perpetrators were young. Late teens, maybe early twenties, losers who were desperate for a cause to give meaning to their lives. They were getting bolder, escalating with each exhilarating outing.
Ethan really wanted to get his hands on them before someone was injured or killed.
The fire had been minor and put out quick enough to avoid significant structural damage. A second detective from his unit had been assigned to work with him, Sam Clayton. He’d also now acquired an additional, temporary partner, Lieutenant David Pomeroy of PF & R—Portland Fire & Rescue—a fire investigator.
Right now, they were all in waiting mode, which he particularly disliked. There were a lot of names in the Portland, Oregon, telephone directory that might be construed as Jewish. How the particular victims had been targeted was one of the mysteries, although he suspected the phone book since all four home owners thus far still had landlines and none had unlisted numbers.
The part that had him most uneasy was that all four families hit had last names beginning with the letters E and F. What’s more, the attacks had taken place in alphabetical order. Which meant the assailant/s could spell, too.
He’d scoured police reports and community newspapers in search of any hint that there’d been earlier instances of vandalism. Maybe more minor. Otherwise, damn it, why start with Eckstein? Why not Abrams? There had to be a reason.
He picked up the burger and began eating. His thoughts reverted immediately to Laura and Jake Vennetti, as they’d tended to do since he left their house earlier. He had a bad feeling he’d called up email in a deliberate attempt to distract himself.
What he’d been evading was the knowledge that he’d been instantly and powerfully attracted to Matt Vennetti’s widow. The rational part of him knew he had nothing to be ashamed of; Matt had killed himself over five years ago. Given her looks, he had to wonder why she hadn’t remarried.
Frowning, Ethan took a long swallow of beer. No, she wasn’t a beauty, not exactly—he doubted guys trailed her around with their tongues hanging out, although given half a chance he might do just that. Shoulder-length hair was somewhere in that dark blond, light brown range that meant she’d definitely been blonde as a kid, and probably still would be if she spent any time out in the sun come summer. Sun-streaked or not, her hair was thick, straight and shiny. His fingers had itched to discover the texture. A few freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, giving her that girl-next-door look, belied by blue eyes darkened by pain and anger and fear. He wondered if they’d once been brighter.
She was taller than her son when she’d swept him behind her, which meant she was at least five foot eight or nine, no more than an inch or two shorter than Matt had been. Given that Jake was only eleven, it looked as though he’d gained his tall genes from his mother.
She had some serious curves, too, the kind men loved and women fought with never-ending diets. When she turned her back on him, he’d been riveted by a firm, generous ass and tiny waist. Face-to-face...
He grunted unhappily and took another swig of beer, his hamburger in his other hand.
Face-to-face...well, it wasn’t her face he wanted to look at. Her breasts wouldn’t tickle his palms, they’d fill his hands.
And it wasn’t happening. His mouth twisted as he remembered the scathing way she said, I shouldn’t have let you in. Yeah, safe to say he wasn’t her dream man.
Clearly, he didn’t need to do battle with his qualms about lusting after a—well, not a friend’s—a fellow officer’s widow. She’d made clear she would prefer he not come knocking on her door again. Which was fine; he’d been married to a woman who came to abhor his job. Once around was enough for him.
For the boy’s sake, though, he hoped Laura changed her mind, or at least thought about what he’d said. Ethan couldn’t see Jake as likely to go on a shooting rampage, but if he didn’t untangle his feelings, who knew what would happen? Hormones hadn’t hit yet. Ethan hadn’t liked the dark look on his face in that single moment before he raced for his bedroom.
She might not want a gun in the house, and Ethan could even sympathize. But Jake wanted, real bad, to get his hands on one, and where there was a will, there was a way.
Right now, Ethan doubted even Jake knew what he wanted to do with that gun once he had it. Why would he admire that, she’d asked, given what happened because his father carried a gun?
Who said admiration was what Jake felt? He’d been abandoned by his father in the most devastating way possible, shunned by his father’s family. Self-loathing struck Ethan as a likelier possibility. And teenage suicide was all too common.
Ethan finished his hamburger and started in on the French fries, hardly tasting them. He was frustrated by his inability to get through to Laura, yet painfully aware he had no moral high ground here.
When he’d expressed anger at Matt’s buddies on the job, she’d been polite enough not to say, So where were you? Ethan had almost opened his mouth to defend himself anyway, to say, We weren’t really friends. Damn it, he had friends. But the truth is, at the funeral Ethan had looked at Matt’s widow and small, bewildered son, and resolved to check up on them, be sure they were all right. Half the officers there had probably thought the same thing. He’d also vaguely assumed Matt Vennetti’s closer friends would step in to help her out, but that was no excuse.
She’d have been right to paint him with the same brush.
Pushing his empty plate away, Ethan pictured her face. Not when she blazed with anger, but when she had looked at him with such vulnerability and bewilderment. The expression wasn’t so different from the one he’d seen on her boy’s face when he said with such despair, “Mom is going to be so mad.”
Ethan sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, then reached for his wallet when he saw the waitress bearing down on his table with his tab, a flirtatious smile on her face and a swing to her hips. Okay, he hadn’t misread the tone of voice. She had plenty of curves, and he felt...nothing.
He was pleasant as he signed his credit card slip, then slid out of the booth and walked from the restaurant, noting faces, aware of people in the parking lot, passing vehicles.
Behind the wheel of his Yukon, he inserted the key but, still brooding, didn’t immediately turn it.
He hoped Laura would think twice and call him—but if she didn’t, he’d call her. Just to make sure she and Jake were okay. To let her know he’d meant it. And then he’d let a couple of weeks go by and call again.
This time, he wouldn’t forget. She might not like it, but she needed someone, and he had a feeling there wasn’t anyone else.
And damned if he was going to worry about the subterranean reasons behind the determination he felt to look out for this woman and boy.
* * *
“I’LL PROBABLY GET DETENTION,” Jake grumbled.
Laura poured pancake batter onto the griddle. “You probably will.” She refrained from adding, And you deserve to.
After she woke him up, he’d dragged himself into the kitchen this morning wearing pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips and carrying a T-shirt he pulled over his head as she watched. His chest and rib cage were ridiculously pale and skinny. Anyone looking at him would think she was starving him.
“Get the juice out of the fridge, will you?” she asked.
His bare feet were silent on the vinyl floor. Not until she turned her head did she see he had the orange juice carton tipped up and was drinking right out of it.
“Jacob Vennetti!” With her free hand, she grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him.
He dodged it effortlessly. His grin made her heart hurt. He couldn’t smile like that if he was really troubled, could he?
She flipped pancakes. “Grab the margarine and syrup, too.”
He complied. He was enthusiastic about meals.
And guns.
How could that be?
She plopped a plate holding the first stack in front of him before turning back to make more.
Behind her, he whined, “If I have to stay home this weekend, what am I supposed to do?”
“I’m sure I can think of something.” They’d been talking about scraping the several coats of peeling paint off the back deck and repainting. This was day three of dry weather, and they ought to take advantage of it, she reflected. April was a rainy month in Portland. As were...well, most months. Even in July, you took a chance planning something like an outdoor wedding around here.
Unfortunately, she was working today, as she did one or two Saturdays a month, and didn’t have time to find what he’d need to start and give him instructions.
He stuffed his mouth full as she set down a platter with more pancakes in the middle of the table and pulled out a chair herself.
“I wish I was playing Little League,” he grumbled.
“In February, you didn’t want to sign up.”
He shrugged discontentedly. She’d supported his decision, mostly because neither of them liked his coach last year and he’d have been on the same team this year. Maybe that was part of his problem, she thought, buttering her pancakes and adding a dollop of maple syrup. Maybe he had too much time on his hands. A couple of his better friends were playing baseball, which ate up a lot of their spare time.
“There are summer camps,” she pointed out. “Baseball and basketball.”
“I could do both,” he said hopefully.
Laura barely hesitated. She’d worry about the money later. Camps weren’t cheap, and she knew he’d need new basketball shoes and new cleats for baseball. All those calories he was packing in were being used for growing. “I don’t know why not,” she said. “See what Ron and Justin plan to do.”
He bent his head and didn’t say anything. Laura’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t mentioned Ron recently. And...when had either boy last called? She ached to ask if something was wrong, but wanted to preserve this morning’s tentative peace.
“How come you won’t tell me what Detective Winter said about me?” he burst out.
She swallowed a bite. Pancakes would go straight to her butt and she shouldn’t be eating them at all, but it was really hard to cook stuff like this and not eat it.
“You’re ignoring me,” he declared indignantly.
She met his eyes. “I’m refusing to repeat myself, that’s all. But since you insist, one more time—I doubt he said anything to me that he didn’t to you.”
He looked sulky. “You talked to him for ages.”
She didn’t even want to think about her conversation with Detective Ethan Winter. Not when it included them holding hands. Not when she had imagined what it would feel like to have his arms around her. To lean against him, lay her head on his very broad shoulder. Feel his lips—
No, she hadn’t imagined that until later, after Jake was in bed and she was alone. That fleeting fantasy had been especially vivid. It had horrified her to the point where she’d resolved not to think about him at all. If she ever got involved with a man again, he wouldn’t be in law enforcement. He wouldn’t carry a gun as casually as she did her purse.
Ethan Winter was off-limits, even assuming he’d been interested and not just...kind. Concerned about Jake. If his gaze had drifted from her face to her breasts, it was probably because he wasn’t being straight with her and didn’t want to meet her eyes.
Only, she didn’t quite believe that, either.
“He said I could call him if I ever need him,” her son said.
Jolted from her silent lecture to herself, she gaped at Jake. “He asked you to call?”
His face was set in stubborn lines. “He said I could if I want.”
“Why did he think you’d want to?”
He shrugged.
“Are there things you’d say to him that you don’t want to say to me?” She was proud of how calm she sounded.
“Maybe,” he muttered. He stole a peek at her. “’Cuz he’s a guy.”
“So is Uncle Brian. And you like some of your friend’s dads.”
“Yeah, but they’re not—you know.”
Cops. They weren’t cops. They didn’t carry guns. Not a one of them even owned a gun. She hoped. She knew her sister’s husband didn’t.
“You know we can talk about your dad whenever you want.”
He sneered. There was no other word for it. “You hate it when I ask about his job!”
“It’s not that.” Yes, it was. No, it wasn’t, not entirely anyway. “Your father didn’t like to talk about what he did,” she said, although that wasn’t quite right, either. He did like to brag, but he’d never talk about things going wrong, and she always knew when he was especially closed off that he’d seen something awful. He’d go out to a bar instead, to hang with his cop friends. Sometimes every night for days on end, stumbling home drunk, until she’d been forced to confront how peripheral her role in his life was.
Some of that, he couldn’t help, she knew, given his upbringing. He’d been...old-fashioned, believing women were to be protected. He hadn’t been crazy about her continuing to work, although thank God she had an employment history, given that suicide invalidated his life insurance policy. Had he given that a moment’s thought before checking out on his responsibilities? she asked herself for the thousandth time, and knew the answer: no. Or if he had, worry about his wife and child’s future hadn’t weighed heavily enough against the shame he was facing. Guilt, too; she knew he’d felt it, but was petty enough to believe in the end what he couldn’t face was the loss of everything that in his eyes made him a man.
Jake jumped up, his chair scraping back. “See? You won’t talk about it! You never do.”
He raced out of the kitchen. The slam of his bedroom door was becoming all-too familiar.
Appetite gone, she stared down at her half-eaten pancakes.
Dear God, she thought, he’s right. There was so much she didn’t want to say about Matt, it stifled her every time Jake asked questions. She’d told herself she was protecting him—but maybe it was herself she needed to protect.
Weary and discouraged, she stood and began to clear the table, scraping sticky lumps of pancake into the trash under the sink. Jake, she couldn’t help noticing, had cleared his plate before he stormed out.
The dishwasher loaded, she leaned against the edge of the counter. She had to try to talk to him...but how was she supposed to know what to say, and what she shouldn’t say? Sometimes she thought having a daughter would have been way easier—but maybe she was wrong. It wasn’t as though she understood herself very well lately, either.
Her gaze strayed to the wooden organizer at one end of the counter that held things like phone books, notepads, pens, paper clips and stamps. She’d dropped the card Ethan Winter had given her in one of the small drawers, telling herself she’d never want it but not quite willing to throw it away. She hated the pull it exerted on her.
He’d have that cop mentality, too. Just because he’d been concerned about Jake and nice to her didn’t mean he was anyone she would ever turn to.
Maybe it was time for her to think about putting Jake in counseling again.
Filing the idea for the moment, she closed her eyes, girded herself and went down the hall to knock on Jake’s door.
* * *
SHE’D FORBIDDEN JAKE to leave the house while she was at work, and was confident he hadn’t. She’d called twice, and he answered the phone both times, but predictably was furious that she was “checking up on him.”
Well, yes.
The week deteriorated from there. Sunday he helped her start scraping the deck, but complained so much she’d have rather done it alone.
He was mad that she insisted he go home after school with his cousins and wait there until she picked him up after she got off work. Why couldn’t he just go home?
“Because it’s going to take time before I believe you’re trustworthy enough again,” she said.
“Everybody cuts school!”
She gritted her teeth. “I don’t care what ‘everybody’ does. You won’t.”
His bedroom door slammed at least once every day. Laura began to wonder if he was reaching early puberty, although she hadn’t seen any other signs.
Her sister just grinned when she complained and said, “He’s spoiled you because he’s been such an easy kid.”
“Tell me at least he’s being polite at your house,” she’d begged.
Jenn had given her a quick hug. “He is. He spent ages pitching to Benji.”
Who was now in fourth grade, and any day now was going to demand his mother call him Ben before she humiliated him in front of his classmates.
Laura at least could be reassured that Jake was being nice to his younger cousins. Wrinkling her nose, she thought, Oh, good. It’s just me he’s mad at.
Saturday morning, a week after the gun show episode, Jake had gone back to his room after breakfast. Laura, grateful to be off for the day, was loading the dishwasher when her phone rang.
The number was her sister’s, which was a surprise since they hadn’t made plans for the weekend. She dried her hands and answered. “Hey. I don’t suppose you’ve decided you’re dying to scrape paint off my deck.”
“Not a chance.” Her sister hesitated. “Laura, Benji just told me something kind of worrisome I thought you should know. Um, are you alone?”
As far as she knew, Jake was still in his room. Nonetheless, she stepped outside, sliding the door closed behind her. It wasn’t raining, but the day was cooler than it had been all week and hinted that drizzle, at least, was on its way.
“Now I am,” she said. “What did Benji say?”
“Did you know Tino and his wife moved last year? Laura, their kids go to Faubion, too.”
Goose bumps of alarm rose on Laura’s arms. Faubion, kindergarten through eighth grade, was Jake’s school. And...Tino’s son was a year older than Jake, which would make him seventh grade, and his next oldest, a daughter...fifth, she thought. Then Tino’s kids stair-stepped down from there. They were a good Catholic family, and had already had three kids with Renata pregnant again the last time Laura saw them. They’d likely added a couple more since then.
“Why didn’t Jake say anything?”
“It gets worse,” her sister warned. “According to Benji, Tino’s kids have been bad-mouthing Jake. Everyone knows about the shooting now.”
“Oh, God.”
“He said kids are whispering about him. He’s seen Jake alone at recess shooting baskets instead of hanging out with friends.”
“And he didn’t say a word to me,” she said, stunned.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for telling me.” So much rage bubbled in her chest, she couldn’t believe how calm she sounded. “I...needed to know.”
“I thought so. Are you going to talk to him?”
“Yes. And then I’m going to talk to Tino.”
“Laura? That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”
“That son of a bitch,” she bit off, and ended the call with a single stab of her finger.
* * *
TOTALLY FREAKED, JAKE stared at the front door that Mom had slammed so hard, he thought it was still quivering.
Then, with a cry of fear, he leaped forward and wrenched the door open, racing after her.
He was too late. She was already backing down the driveway, looking over her shoulder. Even as he ran across the lawn, she reached the street and started forward without seeing him. Standing still on the sidewalk, breathing hard, he heard a squeal as she turned the corner a block and a half down. Mom never speeded, but she had to be.
What if something really bad happened? It would be his fault. Because of what happened back then. Everything had been his fault: Marco and Dad, and Mom sad for so long.
And now things might get really bad again.
He could call Aunt Jennifer. She might chase after Mom and...he didn’t know. Stop her from talking to Uncle Tino?
But he’d heard the end of the phone call. Aunt Jennifer already knew what Mom was going to do. It didn’t even sound as if she’d tried to talk Mom out of going. Jake pictured her, smaller, skinnier than Mom, nice but...well, nice. Too nice to stop Mom.
What do I do?
He didn’t even know exactly where Uncle Tino lived. After finding out his cousins had started at his school, he’d looked in the phone book, but there was no Tino Vennetti there at all, not even at an old address.
As he ran back across the yard and into the house, his heart pounded so hard it felt as if it was going to burst like a water balloon when you dropped it.
And then his eyes widened. Detective Winter could stop her if he wanted. He’d make sure Uncle Tino didn’t hurt her.
And Jake had the card with his phone number hidden under the base of his desk lamp so Mom wouldn’t find it and take it.
He was in such a hurry to grab the card, the lamp fell over and the bulb shattered, but he didn’t care.
* * *
SATURDAY MORNING, ETHAN was back to canvas neighbors of the Finkels he hadn’t yet been able to talk to when his cell phone rang. He took it from his belt and felt a jolt when he saw who was calling. He’d looked up Laura and Jake Vennetti’s number last weekend and added it to his contacts list.
“Winter,” he said, stopping halfway up the walkway to a handsome Victorian across the street and two doors down from the Finkels, whose house still had a blackened corner.
“Detective?” It was the boy, and his voice was high and scared. “Mom found out something, and...and I’m scared of what she’s going to do.”
That didn’t sound good.
“What did she find out?” he asked, taking on the tone he used to soothe distraught witnesses.
“It’s... See, we moved, after—you know, Dad died.” His voice shook. “But a while back my uncle Tino moved near us, and his kids go to my school now. They’ve been, like, telling everyone about me.”
Oh, hell.
“Only I didn’t tell Mom, but my cousin Benji ratted to his mom, who told mine.”
He had to untangle that. “His mom is...your mother’s sister?”
“Yes!” This was a wail. “Mom is really mad. She just, like, roared out of here. She’s going to my uncle Tino’s, and...and I don’t know what’s going to happen!”
“Okay.” Ethan had already leaped into his SUV and was calling up an address for Tino Vennetti. “I don’t think anything that bad would happen. Your mom may yell, but it sounds like your uncle Tino deserves to be yelled at.”
“Yes, but—” The boy gulped. “He punched Dad once. Dad fell down, and he was bleeding and he had a couple of broken teeth and...”
“Fortunately, I’m not that far away. I might even beat your mom there, if she just left.”
“You’ll go over there?” Jake’s relief was vast and would have been heartwarming if Ethan hadn’t been pretty sure Laura wasn’t going to welcome his intervention.
“I’m on my way. Don’t worry.”
He pushed the speed limits a little, but hadn’t lied; the Finkels lived in the Woodlawn neighborhood, which bordered the funkier, slightly less expensive Concordia where, apparently, two sets of Vennettis now lived.
Laura had already jumped out of her car and reached the sidewalk when he rolled up right behind her in front of the house on Northeast 28th. Her head swung around and she stared at him in astonishment that transmuted into fury as he got out.
“What are you doing here?”
“Jake called me. He was worried.”
“Worried about what?” she snapped. “That I might hurt his uncle Tino’s feelings?”
“I think he’s more worried about you,” Ethan said gently. “He remembers Uncle Tino slugging his dad. He said there was a lot of blood.”
“Oh. Oh!” She pressed her fingers to her lips and then turned her back on him.
Ethan put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded. “I’m not here to stop you. I understand why you’re mad. He...told me enough.”
That lit a fuse. Laura wheeled around, forcing him to drop his hands from her. “Did he tell you his dear little cousin Gianna said her dad ordered them to make sure everyone knows what happened? To say that he’s dangerous and shouldn’t be allowed at school?”
“No.” His teeth clamped together. It took an effort to relax his jaw. “He didn’t tell me that.”
“What would you do if this was your son?”
“Probably the same thing you want to do,” he admitted.
Her eyes widened. “Do you have a son?”
“No. No kids. No wife.” Not anymore.
Her eyes shot sparks. “Then you don’t know.”
He glanced sidelong. Curtains had been twitching in the front window since he got there.
“What I do know,” he said quietly, “is that if you go in there screaming, all you’ll accomplish is to ramp up the hostilities. Your brother-in-law will feel justified in spreading the word that you and Jake both are unbalanced.”
If her glare had been a blowtorch, he’d be charbroiled by now.
“Then what am I supposed to do? Remind him timidly that Jake has feelings, too?”
His smile had her staring. “No.” He let the smile go. “I’d shame him.”
She didn’t so much as blink. He absolutely couldn’t tell what she was thinking. But then her fingers uncurled from fists and she gave a sharp nod.
“You’re right.” She turned and marched up the narrow concrete walkway.
Ethan was right behind her. He was damned if there’d be any bloodshed today.
Before they reached the porch steps, the front door of the nicely cared for house of 1930s or ’40s vintage opened and a man stepped out. He advanced to the front of the porch, giving him the high ground. A dark-haired woman hovered just inside the house. Ethan kept his attention on the man, who was unmistakably Matt Vennetti’s brother—and Jake Vennetti’s uncle.
After barely flicking a glance at Ethan, he stared insolently at Laura. “What do you want?”
“Hello, Tino,” she said with remarkable restraint. “Renata.”
The woman faded back.
“I’m here to ask you why you’re going out of your way to hurt a child. A child who is related to you.”
His lip curled. “He murdered Marco.”
Ethan laid a hand on her lower back. He felt the quivering tension in her muscles, but he also would have sworn she had leaned back into his hand, just a little.
“He was five years old, Tino.” She raised her brow and again looked past him, where his wife was an indistinct shadow in the foyer. “Last I knew, you were expecting. Did you have a girl or a boy?”
There was a moment of silence. “A boy,” Tino said stiffly.
“Who would be...maybe six now?”
His jaw muscles knotted. He didn’t say anything.
“In kindergarten, I guess.”
Still nothing.
“Probably six months older now than Jake was when he thought it would be fun to show off his daddy’s gun to Marco. He wanted so much to grow up to be like Matt.”
For all that she kept her dignity, the grief in her voice and on her face was shattering.
“Can you tell me that your little boy hasn’t tried to get his hands on your tools, even when you told him he can’t touch them?”
The expression on Tino’s face shifted.
Ethan didn’t know what he did for a living, but her shaft had struck home, he could tell that much.
“You didn’t see Marco.” She shuddered, and then steadied herself. “After. I did. You didn’t hear Jake screaming. Do you know he didn’t quit screaming until we had him sedated? Do you know he wouldn’t talk for weeks? That he had nightmares for years?” Her voice had fallen to a whisper. She stared her brother-in-law in the eye, and then shook her head. “But no.” She resumed a normal conversational tone, making sure the woman inside heard her, too. “Because you never again set eyes on him, did you? Nobody from your family did. None of you cared at all about the five-year-old boy, your own flesh and blood, who will be haunted for the rest of his life by the terrible thing that happened. A tragedy that was not his fault. Because he was playing. Until that unspeakable moment, all he knew about guns was what he’d seen on cartoons and that his daddy, the hero, carried one. Now, his own cousins are making his life so much harder.” She shook her head and finished quietly, “You should be ashamed of yourself, Tino.”
Then she turned, drawing Ethan with her, and started back to her car.
“Laura.”
She paused. Ethan looked over his shoulder.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Tino said hoarsely. “Mama—” Then his throat worked and he bowed his head.
Laura resumed walking. When they reached her car, Ethan stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Are you okay to drive?”
He felt her fine tremors, but she was steadier than he’d expected.
“Yes.” She hesitated. “I think so.” Her eyes met his. “Thanks to you. I...I might just sit here for a minute.”
“Okay.” He let one corner of his mouth tilt up. “You did good.”
She almost smiled, but not quite. “Thank you. Um...have they gone back inside? I can’t let myself look.”
“Yeah. I think he’s crying.”
“Good,” she said fiercely.
He smiled and hugged her, letting her go before she could protest. “I’ll follow you home.”
She took in the badge at his waist. “Aren’t you working?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Her eyes filled with tears. She took a swipe at them and hurried around her car. When she opened the door, he bent to see that she’d left her keys in the ignition and her purse on the front seat. From what Jake had said about the way she stormed out, it was probably a surprise she’d remembered to bring her purse.
“See you there,” he said with a nod.
Over the roof of the car, their eyes met, and his heart skipped a couple of beats at what he saw in hers before color washed over her cheeks and she climbed in and slammed her door.
Feeling uncomfortably light-headed, Ethan got into his Yukon, where he sat looking at the back of her head and wondering what in the hell had just happened.
