He narrowed his eyes on her. “Why?”
“Chief, what? You don’t trust me? I thought you wanted me to get away.”
“You want to talk to your niece about your doorman.”
“I do, but that’s not why you’re thinking I’m heading to Vermont.”
“We still don’t have a firm ID—”
Rivera didn’t seem to hear her. “It’s the FBI’s investigation right now. You’re personally involved. I’d advise you not to step on Collins’s toes.”
“I don’t know, Chief. I think Agent Collins is warming up to me.”
He sighed. “Where’s Brooker?”
“He doesn’t check in with me.”
There must have been something in her expression, because Rivera rubbed the back of his neck and heaved another sigh, deeper, regretful. “It’s none of my business, but a guy like that will break your heart.”
For once, Juliet didn’t argue with him or make a comment she’d regret.
On his way out, he stopped and looked back at the living room, shaking his head. “Seventeen. Your niece shouldn’t be exposed to such violence at that age. Any age. No kid should be.” Rivera’s black eyes shone. “I’m sorry, Juliet. I’m sorry as hell.”
Thirteen
Faye Carhill welcomed Ethan into her sun-filled breakfast room, kissing him on the cheek and insisting he sit down for coffee and warm pecan rolls fresh from the oven, baked from scratch by the family cook.
“Ethan, Ethan,” Faye said, shaking her head as if she’d never expected to see him again. “You look good, Ethan. I had no idea you were home.”
“I got in last night—spur-of-the-moment visit.”
“Your parents won’t be back from Denver for another few days. You’ll stay to see them, won’t you?”
“Depends.” He didn’t elaborate. “I saw Luke and Dorrie and the boys last night.”
“Aren’t the boys getting big? Luke, Jr., reminds me of you, always on the go.” Faye tried to smile. “Although I think it would devastate your mother if he went off to West Point. One boy in the family is enough.”
Ethan didn’t take the bait. Military service was for other people, other families—not the Carhills. He wondered just what Faye knew about her son’s activities in South America. But he wasn’t going to ask, and he sure wasn’t discussing his own family with her.
“Is Ham around? I’d like to say hello.”
“He was.” She lifted a pecan roll onto a flowered china plate, intent on what she was doing but Ethan had heard the catch in her voice. “He left yesterday afternoon. I’d hoped he’d stay awhile longer.”
“When did he get home?”
“About a week ago. It was good to have him here.”
She spoke as if he were a college student home on break. Ham had graduated at nineteen, earned his master’s at twenty, his Ph.D. at twenty-two, then chucked it all and headed to South America. Faye was clearly in denial of the fact that Ham was no longer a kid, that he had his own life.
Ethan watched Faye carefully place the plate on the glass table, snatching a pecan that had fallen off one of the rolls. But the smell of butter, cinnamon and pecans didn’t tempt him. He wasn’t hungry.
“Ham’s still drifting,” Faye said.
“He’s only twenty-five. He’s got time to figure out what he wants to do.”
“You were fighting terrorists at twenty-five.”
Not that Faye would want her son to do the same—but not that she wouldn’t want him to, either. In a way, she’d like it if Ham told her to go to hell and signed up for the Marines. She’d always been conflicted about her son. Protective, because he was gawky and awkward with people. Distant, because at the same time, she was determined to shove him out of the nest. She and Ham’s father were generous with financial support, yet eager to see their son make it on his own. And always, mother and father both were not quite able to hide their disappointment in their only child.
“He was very thin when he arrived here,” Faye went on. “Emaciated, really. He had these little welts all over him. I don’t know—insect bites, I think. He refused to see a doctor.”
“Ham’s smarter than most of us, Faye.”
“Too smart for his own good. These so-called adventures he’s having—I thought they’d make him stronger, toughen him up. Now, I don’t know. It doesn’t look as if they’re doing him or anyone else any good.”
“Did he say where he went, when he’s coming back? I’m at a loose end. I’d like to see him.”
She shook her head. “I don’t even have his cell-phone number. I don’t know if he has a cell phone. I can’t reach my own son. What if something happened to John or me? What if the house burned down? We wouldn’t be able to find him.”
“It’s not that easy to hide these days. Someone would find him.”
“You could, I suppose,” she said with sudden earnestness. “Find him, talk to him…I’d pay you. You said yourself you’re at a loose end—”