to dinner tomorrow—unless you have a date—and see if you can figure out what’s going on with him.”
The desperation in her face hit him hard—but not as hard as the jab about a date. Saturday night, and he’d be home alone. Again. He’d yet to find a woman he found more interesting than work. Sure, he dated. But not often. He was tired of the whole game. He met a woman. She pretended to be someone she wasn’t and swore she didn’t mind the danger of his job and didn’t want kids. Then her true colors seeped through.
“Please, Brandon.”
There was probably nothing wrong with the boy that some tough love wouldn’t cure. “I’ll be there.”
He’d never live up to the gratitude in her eyes. But he had to at least try. He owed Rick that much.
* * *
HANNAH’S GARAGE GUTTER was sagging again. Brandon cursed and slowed his truck a hundred yards from the house Saturday evening. The fascia board behind the gutter, and possibly one or more rafters, would have to be replaced, but that meant removing the old ones, painting the new ones and getting it all reassembled without getting caught.
After Hannah had ordered him to stay away from her and her family and refused multiple offers of help from other officers from SLED, Brandon had covertly organized a team of Rick’s coworkers. He and the guys were limited to working the one weekend a month when Hannah and the kids went out of town. That made complicated, multistep projects difficult to complete without getting caught.
Their clandestine activities were aided by the fact that her three-acre lot was heavily wooded, concealing the house on all sides from her neighbors, and those neighbors were the kind who minded their own business.
Privacy had been Rick’s primary reason for choosing the fixer-upper in an older area, although he had planned to clear out more trees to make a bigger lawn for the kids to play on. But he hadn’t lived long enough to finish that project or many of the others on his long list. Brandon kept the small patch of grass in the front yard weeded and fertilized, but he couldn’t do much more without revealing the team’s secret work.
He parked beneath the basketball goal “Santa” had left last Christmas then scanned the house as he traversed the walk, noting the white clapboard siding was still clean from the last pressure washing, and the shutters still looked good, too. He climbed the stairs to the small porch and pushed the button. A bell chimed inside. Seconds later the door opened. A miniature version of Hannah with big blue eyes—Rick’s eyes—stared up at him and regret gnawed his gut. Rick would never get to see how much his baby girl had grown.
The heavy humid air clogged Brandon’s throat. He cleared it. “Hello, Belle. I’m Brandon. Your mom’s expecting me.”
A rustle of movement behind her preceded Hannah’s appearance. She looked flustered. Color tinted her cheeks and upper chest. She opened the door wider, revealing an outfit identical to her daughter’s short denim skirt, pink T-shirt and sparkly sandals. But Hannah wasn’t shaped like a six-year-old. Her curves rounded out her clothing nicely, and her legs—
Eyes north, dumbass. “Hey.”
“Hi. Belle, Officer Martin is joining us for dinner. He’s the one you set the extra plate for.”
“Did you know my daddy? He was an occifer, too.”
“Your dad was my best friend. We grew up together. We met when we were just a little older than you.”
“I have a best friend. Her name is Sydney. She sits beside me at school. Mommy packs extra snacks for Sydney because her family can’t ’ford them and the Bible says we hafta share with those less fort’nate.”
He—a master interrogator—had no idea what to say. He glanced at Hannah. Pride and love for her daughter glistened in her eyes. “That’s uh...nice,” was all he could muster.
“Let’s see if Mason remembers Brandon, Belle.”
Rick’s little girl curled her fingers trustingly around Brandon’s then she pulled him inside, towing him across the scarred hardwood floor that Rick had once planned to refinish. A strange feeling, similar to the sixth sense that prickled up his spine before a dangerous encounter, crawled over him. But there was nothing to fear from this house, Hannah or her children. He attributed the weirdness to the fact that he hadn’t been inside since before Rick’s death, and being here now without his buddy felt wrong somehow.
From the moment Hannah had laid eyes on the place she’d wanted it, and with Brandon’s help, she’d sold Rick on the idea of turning the old house into a dream home for him and the big family the two of them had planned to have.
The foyer was clean but worn. A dark wood intricately carved banister curved upward. Rick had wanted to paint it all white. Correction: he had wanted to con Brandon into doing it or pay someone else to. Rick hadn’t been much on manual labor. He’d been more of an egghead who could visualize the most efficient way for others to implement his plan unless it was a computer program. With those he’d been a tireless genius at building them or picking them apart.
But Brandon had been tied up with his first rental property and couldn’t help, and hiring someone required cash—something cops didn’t have a surplus of. Which meant that jobs had to be prioritized and spread out. So Rick had drawn up a five-year renovation plan and been killed two years into it.
Belle released his hand to grab a toy pony. “This is Molly. I’m going to have a horsey like her when I get big.”
“I like horses, too. We have them in the orchard where I grew up. Your dad and I used to race them between the trees.”
“Daddy could ride?”
“Yeah. I taught him how.”
Brandon spotted a dark-haired boy sitting at a desk in the den, staring into a laptop. He didn’t turn when they entered.
“Mason, come and meet Officer Martin.”
The kid jumped, then punched buttons and quickly shut down the computer. Too quickly? He twisted their way and déjà vu hit Brandon hard, hurling him back to his childhood. Mason was a miniature Rick. Those familiar blue eyes were wary. The cop in Brandon immediately asked why and if it was related to his school issues? But he dismissed the questions. Hannah had introduced him as an officer and a lot of people were uncomfortable around cops.
Brandon crossed the room and stuck out his hand. “Mason, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Brandon, a friend of your dad’s.”
Mason showed no sign of recognition. His expression soured. “My dad’s dead.”
Brandon suppressed a flinch at the inevitable stab of pain. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He was sorry in more ways than the boy would ever know.
Hannah cleared her throat. “Mason.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Mason added at the prompt and shook Brandon’s hand.
“Your dad was good with computers. What do you like to do on them?”
The kid froze then snatched his hand back. His gaze slid left. “Nothing. Just look at stuff.”
That warning prickle intensified. “What kind of stuff?”
Mason swallowed and shrugged. He focused on a point beyond Brandon’s ear.
“Games? Instant messaging? Chat rooms?” Brandon prompted, endeavoring to keep his tone friendly and casual, but red flags were flapping wildly in his subconscious.
Mason shook his head vigorously. “Mom doesn’t allow any of that. It’s just research. For papers I have to write.”
Hannah patted her son’s shoulder. “Mason’s in the accelerated Language Arts class.”
“Your dad was smart in Language Arts. He really liked to read. Sometimes he helped me with book reports.”
The