Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

“I need to leave in a day or so. I have a job interview on the East Coast.”

They’d talked about this on the drive here. The job interview was not exactly that, but, like Russell’s, Victoria’s line of work required the occasional euphemism.

Her eyes were on his when she added, “But I’d like to come back.”

“Always welcome,” Mary Dove said and pressed Victoria’s arm.

Shaw’s glance seconded the motion.

“Tell me about him?” Mary Dove asked.

He knew that she was speaking of Russell.

“Mysterious, doesn’t say much, sharp as a whip. Looks exactly the same — well, aside from the beard. It’s longer now. His hair too. Still couldn’t find out where he’s working. Government, deep cover.”

Victoria said, “Has or had some Pentagon connection. DoD.”

“Why’s that?”

“In San Bruno, after the shoot-out, he said we were ‘black on backup.’ That’s Army talk. We used that on operations in Delta.”

Shaw thought, Oh, yeah, Ashton Shaw would have loved this woman.

Mary Dove gave a soft smile, and gentle wrinkles folded around her mouth and eyes. “Did Russell say anything about a family?”

“Said he didn’t have one.”

There was a pause as Mary Dove’s eyes fixed on a sunlit peak. “Did you ask him about visiting?”

One never evaded, much less lied, within the Shaw family. “I did. He said he couldn’t. An assignment. Important.”

“It’s his job and his life.”

“He’s hard to read but I could tell he’s content.”

Leaving another thought understood, but unstated: both she and Ash had made the right decision in plotting out and executing the most difficult task in the world: their children’s upbringing.

His mother said, “I’ve got to get dinner going. Venison with blackberry glaze. It’s been soaking all day.”

Her habit was to steep the meat in buttermilk, which eliminated the gamey flavor.

Motion in the corner of Shaw’s eye. A nighthawk jotted above the field in his buoyant, erratic path. These particular birds have among the most complicated markings of any avian — their camo makes them virtually invisible during the day, but now, in approaching dusk, they’re easily spotted as they hunt for flying insects. They’re easily heard too: they issue a repetitive, raspy creek-creek when on wing. Colter had once been attacked by one when he had unknowingly trod too close to a nest. Both man and bird disengaged unharmed.

Looking away from the spirited bird, Shaw said, “Have a thought. What do you say about the three of us hiking Echo Ridge tomorrow.”

“Lovely idea,” said Mary Dove.

“Sounds good to me,” Victoria said. Then after a brief pause she turned her head slightly and squinted. “But I think it’s going to be four.”

Shaw glanced at her and noted she was looking past him. Both he and his mother turned.

A figure stepped from the dirt road onto the driveway. The man was dressed in black and wearing a stocking cap. He carried a duffel bag in one hand, and a backpack was over his right shoulder. He paused, looking at the house and, seeing the trio on the porch, he brushed at his long beard with the back of his left hand and continued in a slow lope toward them.

“My,” Mary Dove whispered, a hint of uncharacteristic emotion in her voice. She stepped off the planks, into the grass, to greet her eldest son.

Novels are not one-person endeavors. Creating them and getting them into the hands and hearts of readers is a team effort, and I am beyond lucky to have the best team in the world. My thanks to Sophie Baker, Felicity Blunt, Berit Böhm, Dominika Bojanowska, Penelope Burns, Annie Chen, Sophie Churcher, Francesca Cinelli, Isabel Coburn, Luisa Collichio, Jane Davis, Liz Dawson, Julie Reece Deaver, Danielle Dieterich, Jenna Dolan, Mira Droumeva, Jodi Fabbri, Cathy Gleason, Alice Gomer, Iven Held, Ashley Hewlett, Sally Kim, Hamish Macaskill, Cristina Marino, Ashley McClay, Emily Mlynek, Nishtha Patel, Seba Pezzani, Rosie Pierce, Abbie Salter, Roberto Santachiara, Deborah Schneider, Sarah Shea, Mark Tavani, Madelyn Warcholik, Claire Ward, Alexis Welby, Sue and Jackie Yang. You’re the best!