Her knuckles were white where she had her long blond braid in a
death grip, and the smooth skin over her carotid pulsed rapidly. She shot what he could
swear was a panicked look at the door. Bottom line…Marlie Foxe looked ready to bolt
faster than a deer on opening day of hunting season.
Her deep blue gaze met his, and he was struck by the sad, haunted
look in hers. He’d seen that look. It was the same one he’d seen in the mirror on his
own face and those of his parents in the days and months after Gracie disappeared. He
wondered if it would ever stop.
Now, for the first time in twenty-four years, he was, potentially, on
the verge of discovering the answer to his family’s burning question: what happened to
their daughter, his sister?
If only he wasn’t exhausted. Make that totally beat to shit. He’d
barely slept, and then only because he’d had to.
In the two days he’d been waiting to interview Noah, he’d fully
briefed his SAIC—Special Agent in Charge—the FBI director via Zoom, the U.S.
Attorney’s Office in Denver, gotten an arrest warrant for Francis Manello and served
another search warrant at the man’s house. He and a team of agents had tossed the
house from top to bottom. Forensics was dumping every scrap of information on
Manello’s computer, but all Evan could think about was that Polaroid. He still couldn’t
believe it, but it was her—Gracie—wearing the same pink shirt she’d had on the last
time he’d seen her. Guilt squeezed his heart tighter than a bank vault door.
Focus, dammit! Focus!
“Blue, come.” He hitched his head to the dog who’d been his
partner for more than four years.
As Blue trotted to the bed, Evan pointed, and his dog situated
himself between Marlie and the bed and rested his head on the edge of the mattress.
Despite Blue’s size, Marlie didn’t cringe or back away.
“Can I pet him?” Noah looked at Evan expectantly.
“You bet. That’s what I brought him for.” Pretty much every kid
Noah’s age wanted a dog. A dog’s attention and comfort were great for improving
emotional health, especially after a traumatic experience. The only thing necessary was
for the dog to be gentle and friendly, which Blue was. Except when hunting down a
homicidal felon.
It wasn’t quite a smile, but the corners of Marlie’s pink, full lips lifted
a fraction as she watched Noah pet Blue. She had the most interesting face he’d ever
seen. Heart-shaped. Yet it was her eyes that drew him in. Eyes were the windows to the
soul, and he wondered about hers.
“He likes having his ears stroked,” Evan said, casting a glance over
his shoulder. The good doctor, who looked eerily like an undertaker, would be back soon
with those extra chairs. Noah didn’t like the man. Getting him out the door, even for a
few minutes, seemed like a stellar idea.
Blue leaned into the boy’s hand and groaned like he’d just scarfed
down a meaty T-bone. The deep rumble in the back of Blue’s throat made Noah giggle.
He hadn’t quite reached adolescence and still had the high-pitched voice of youth.
“Do you like dogs?” he asked, taking the first step in his forensic
interview of the boy: establishing rapport.
He nodded.
In the interest of not towering over the bed, Evan sat in the vacant chair, leaving
Kinnemara, the FBI’s Office for Victim Assistance advocate, standing quietly by the
door.
Normally, he’d approach any interview with methodical calm, but
that Polaroid of his sister made him feel like a powder keg with a little fuse. He wanted
to trash protocol and dive right in. With children, rushing in too quickly could be
disastrous. “Did you ever have a dog before?”
Noah shook his head, his attention still focused on Blue. “I wanted
one, but Sheila and Mike—my foster parents—wouldn’t let me.”
No surprise there. Noah Lund’s background check had included his
former foster parents. Sheila and Mike Hamilton had been too busy peddling drugs out
their back door to care about anyone else. He’d bet they’d only taken Noah in to get
state money for fostering a child. The state’s screening process was seriously flawed.
More like, seriously sucked.
Evan caught Marlie scrutinizing him. The haunted look in her eyes had been
replaced by something else. Suspicion. Still drilling him with those piercing blue eyes,
she rested a hand on Noah’s shoulder, telling him something else—North Metro’s
custodian was protective of the boy. Somehow, in the span of only two days, they’d
formed a bond, one he needed to be cautious of. Perhaps, take advantage of.
“Do you like baseball?” The kid’s pjs were baseball-themed.
“Yeah.” Noah kept petting Blue.
“Me too. I played in school.”
Finally, the boy looked up. “What position?”
“Centerfield. You?”
Noah shrugged. “Don’t know. Never played on a team. Just
with Caleb.”
“Who’s Caleb?” He already knew the kid had no siblings and
no other blood relatives the state was aware of.
“My friend. I think he got caught. He—”
Caught?
Squealing came from the hallway as Dr. Strobie wheeled in
two more chairs, positioning one beside Evan’s and leaving the other at the foot of the
bed for Kinnemara.
Strobie sat and scooted his chair closer. Noah stopped
petting Blue and tugged the sheet on his lap higher, gripping it tightly in his fists, as if
forming a protective shield. The kid really didn’t like the hospital shrink. If he could eject
the doc from the room, he gladly would. The man’s presence had the same effect as
slapping a strip of duct tape over the boy’s mouth. Strobie had also procured a legal-
size notepad and sat poised with a ballpoint pen in his hand.
This guy was a pain in the ass. The best way to establish
rapport and trust with a child was to show them you were listening and that you cared.
Not by writing down every word.
