“He will be,” Sam said. “Give him time.”
“It’s notjustlosing his career,” Robin said. “Or the rest of the fuckery from the election.”
“Yeah, I know.” Sam put his phone down, focusing his full attention on Robin. “How areyou?”
“I’m not okay yet either,” he admitted, “but I’m great at faking it.”
Sam nodded. “Maybe... don’t?”
“Yeah, and add worrying that I’ll self-destruct to his shit-list?” Not a chance. Jules was dealing with enough.
“You gonna self-destruct?” Sam’s piercing blue eyes suddenly damn near pinned Robin to his seat. It was hard not to get huffy because it had been so freaking long since Robin had last had a drink. But the fact remained that therewasa time when the stress of their current lives could’ve pushed him over the edge. So Sam’swasa valid question—as a recovering alcoholic, it would be a valid question until the day Robin died.
So Robin didn’t huff. He just quietly answered, “No, I’m not, but I don’t want him to worry that I will.”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t worry about that,” Sampointed out. “I mean, I do, or, rather, Idid, but... Jules has faith in you, Boy Wonder. So much, that it’s contagious.”
Did.
Sam’s use of the past tense hit him in the gut, and he felt his eyes tear up.
“Thanks, Sam,” Robin whispered. “It’s just that he’s so...” He searched for the right word. “Weirdly detached. I honestly don’t think he’s cried yet about any of this. Certainly not in front of me, and I don’t even think in the shower, you know?”
Sam nodded. “Give him time,” he said again. “Let him grieve in his own way, at his own pace. His heart’s been broken—part of him’s still in shock. He loved the work he was doing—defending a country and a government that’s just told him he’s unwelcome and unwanted.”
Robin must’ve looked like he was about to argue, because Sam stopped him.
“And I know, I hear you, the American people voted the way they voted through apathy or ignorance or whatever, I don’t give a shit, and Jules doesn’t either. Bottom line, enough people didn’t care, and this happened, and he’s a casualty, and it sucks. Me, back in the day as it were, I was a casualty of my very own stupidity and carelessness, making choices that came back to bite me on the ass, earning me my visit from the Navy’s Unwelcome Wagon. But Jules...” He shook his head. “He didn’t do anything wrong. You know, I’m pretty sure he loved his job at the Bureau even more than I loved being a SEAL—which was a lot. Bottom line though? He loves you more. And he loves me, and Alyssa, and Ash and Haley—shit, I’m pretty sure he even loves grumpy Dave Malkoff, who’s handling some support work for us from the San Diego office?—”
“Yeah, I definitely don’t love Dave anymore. He just sent us this.” Jules was back downstairs. He was carrying aclipped packet of papers about the same size as the thirty minute TV pilot script that Robin had brought home with him. He’d pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and his feet were bare. His hair was adorably messy and a little damp as if he’d splashed water on his face.
Sam sat up, eagerly reaching for the packet. Jules surrendered it as he sat down half beside and half on top of Robin, pulling him in for a kiss and a long, tight hug, thank God. He’d been so distant—trapped inside of his own head—but this, despite the fact that he still looked too damn tired, felt far more normal.
Having Sam here and actively working a case was good. Well, maybe not quite good, but certainly better.
“Ah, shit,” Sam said. “I was hoping for background info on the Devonshire family freakshow. This is... Holy shit, is this...? What thefuck, Dave?”
“It’s a working list of Emily Johnsons in the greater Los Angeles area,” Jules told Robin. “Arranged in zip code order. Dave thought he should compile that first. I donotagree.”
“Whoa,” Robin said. “Big list.”
“Lotta Emilys here,” Sam confirmed. “Damn.”
“Yeah.” Jules looked over at Sam. “Dave also sent us a statewide list of Emilys, and averylarge national one—I didn’t print those out, but sweet Jesus, Mrs. Johnson, pick a different name for your daughter! God help us if we have to knock on all those doors.”
Sam looked at Jules over the top of the packet of paper. “We’re not there yet.”
“We’re pretty freaking close,” Jules said.
Sam turned to tell Robin, “We’ve made contact with three out of the four former housekeepers, none of whom have any memory of any Emily Johnson at any time in Dead Milt’s life.”
Dead Milt...? Which made sense since Milt Devonshire had named his son Milt Devonshire, and it could get confusing when discussing them.
“Four out of four,” Jules reported. “That was Rene, calling me back.”
“Ah, shit,” Sam said.
“Yeah. She didn’t know any Emilys either, but she thought it would be a good idea to check her computer records, which are still over at the estate. So maybe, but I doubt it.” He told Robin, “Rene was the fourth and final housekeeper.” Back to Sam. “She’ll meet us over there, tomorrow, around three.”
