“I’m sorry,” Willa said, shaking her head with obvious embarrassment. “How rude of me. It’s just that you look so familiar.”
“My father’s been on television a few times,” his son said, entering after getting ready for work. “Hi, Willa.”
“Hi, Rad,” Willa greeted him.
“My dad’s the Director of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Rad explained.
“That must be it,” Willa said, though she still looked puzzled. “Nice to meet you, Director Dillinger. I hope you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks,” Holt said, remembering how news traveled in small towns. “I’m getting there.”
Tyler appeared with another teenage boy who was obviously Andy, and Holt could see immediately why his grandson had been drawn to this new friend. Andy Parker had the kind of quietconfidence that came from growing up with a strong parent, and the way he greeted the adults showed good manners without being overly formal.
She turned to Rad. “Can you still drop the boys off?” Willa asked him.
“Yes, of course,” Rad said. “Are you ready, Tyler?”
“Let me just change my shirt,” Tyler said, and rushed off with Andy to his room.
Willa turned to Mina. “Margo asked me if you had that recipe you promised her?”
“The one for the lemon bars?” his mother asked.
“Yes, I think so,” Willa said.
“Come, I’ll get it for you,” Holt’s mother turned and started walking toward the kitchen.
Willa turned toward Holt. “It’s nice to meet you, Director Dillinger. I hope your recovery goes smoothly.” She looked in the direction Tyler and Andy had run. “Bye Andy, behave yourself, I love you.”
“Bye, Mom,” Andy called from down the hall. “Will do. I love you too.”
Willa gave Holt another smile before turning and following Mina into the kitchen, leaving him and his son alone in the living room.
“Parker?” Holt said suddenly, turning to his son. His brows knitted together as memory clicked into place. “Is she related to the Fire Captain who died in that fire ten years ago?”
“Yes,” his son confirmed. “She’s Shaun Parker’s wife. Widow, I mean.”
“Oh,” Holt said, his heart squeezing with sudden understanding. “Is Andy her only child?”
“No, she has three kids. Andy’s the middle one. There’s an older daughter named Grace and a younger girl, Becky.”
“How awful for them,” Holt murmured, thinking of what it must be like to lose a parent so young.
The familiar ache of old loss stirred in his chest, the same pain he’d carried since his father’s death, his sister’s passing, and the end of his marriage to June. The only good thing to come out of his marriage to Lillian was his son, Rad.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the melancholy thoughts. He was being ridiculous, seeing June’s face in strangers, letting his recent dreams about their failed marriage color his perception of reality. The head injury must be affecting him more than he’d realized.
Fifteen minutes later, his son left to drop the boys off at the outdoor movie night in the town square gardens before heading to the police station. His mother had gone to the store, and the cottage grew quiet again, filled only with the distant sound of waves and the odd creak of the house as it settled.
Holt took his iced tea to the back deck, settling into one of the Adirondack chairs that faced the Gulf. The view should have been soothing. The endless blue water stretching to the horizon, seabirds wheeling overhead, the rhythmic sound of waves against the shore.
Instead, the sound of the ocean seemed to amplify the restlessness in his chest. After finishing his drink, he kicked off his shoes and called to Duchess, who appeared immediately with her tail wagging.
“Come on, girl,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”
The beach was nearly deserted in the late afternoon, just a few families packing up their umbrellas and coolers as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. Holt walked slowly, mindful of his healing injuries but grateful for the movement after days of hospital beds.
His mind wandered as they strolled, processing everything that had happened over the past week. The warehouse, the shooting, the strange dreams he’d been having about June. It felt surreal to think that Marcus Volkov was finally dead, that the case that had defined his entire career was closed. He should feel relieved, triumphant even. Instead, he felt oddly hollow, as if removing the driving force of revenge from his life had left him without direction.
