Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

"Those don't pay much," he commented. His gaze never left her face.

"No. She worked two or three jobs, until I was old enough to get a job and help. The day I was hired at the hospital, she quit work. She had worked herself into the ground all those years, so it was my time to take care of her."

He regarded her silently for a moment, his expression enigmatic. "Not many people would feel that way," he finally said.

"Then something's wrong with them." Karen flared. She would have done anything she could to make her mother's life easier.

He held up his hand in a calming gesture. "I agree, I agree."

"Why are you asking? What does my mother have to do with you turning over my father's effects?" He hesitated. "He kept something that was important to him. He could have hocked it, but instead it was sewn into the hem of his pants leg."

Puzzled, she stared up at him, trying to think what on earth could have been important to her father, certainly his wife or daughter hadn't been.

Detective Chastain reached behind him and took a small brown envelope out of the sack containing her father's clothes. He opened it and poured the contents into his hand. "It meant something to him," he said quietly, squatting down in front of her and opening his hand, palm up so she could see what he held. Karen stared at the gold ring lying on the detective's callused palm. For a moment, she didn't recognize it for what it was, then she went numb all over. Her mind somehow separated from her body as if reality had abruptly altered. His wedding ring. He had kept his wedding ring. The simple presence of that plain gold band challenged everything she had thought she knew about her father. "That isn't fair," she whispered, and she didn't mean the detective's perception but instead her father's unexpected sentimentality. She didn't want to know this about him; she didn't want to think that perhaps he had regrets, and pain, and broken dreams. It was easier just to think of him as unfeeling. But nothing was ever easy. Not death, and certainly not life.

Chastain didn't say anything, just continued squatting there with the ring lying on his palm like an offering. What would have happened if she had been on her own? Surely there was a list of items, and she would have signed a receipt stating that she had received everything on the list, but she wouldn't have known her father had kept the ring sewn into the hem of his pants to keep it safe. The busy medical examiner wouldn't have done this personally, a clerk would have handled the chore, and she would never have known. Detective Chastain had gone out of his way to do this, as he had gone out of his way the day before to help her.

She saw herself reach out, the movement involuntary, as if her hand didn't belong to her. Her fingers were trembling. Slowly, she touched the ring, tracing the circle with one fingertip, then withdrew her hand to rest it once again in her lap.

Detective Chastain took her hand in his, his touch gentle as he opened her hand and placed the ring on her palm, then folded her fingers over it. The ring was warm, his hand even warmer. "He cared," he said.

"I don't know why he left, but he didn't stop caring."

She couldn't look up at him. Instead, she stared at their hands, his hard and strong, tanned, much bigger than hers. His clasp was light, as if he were aware of his strength, as many men were not, and took care not to hurt her inadvertently.

Desperately, she struggled to hang on to her control, but his nearness and understanding undermined her. And he seemed to understand that, too, because he released her hand and stood, returning to his seat behind the battered desk.

"Thank you," she said, almost inaudibly. His distance was a relief, yet she found herself yearning for his support.

"You're welcome," he said, and left it at that.

"The rest of his things… are just clothes?"

"Yes. There's a list."

"At least I'll know what size suit to buy for him," she said, though she cringed at the idea of going through the shabby garments looking for tags. It was too much, too soon.

Detective Chastain paused a moment, watching her, then said quietly, "Forty-four long." She swallowed and nodded, looking down at her hands. She had to ask him something, just to be certain, and though the answer would be difficult for a cop, she somehow knew he would be honest with her. "Detective…"

"What?" he asked gently after a moment, when she didn't continue. She raised her eyes to him, squarely meeting his gaze. "Are—are you still working on the case?" He paused, then said, "No."

Karen flinched, though it was exactly what she had expected. He squatted down in front of her again and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. The slight roughness of his callused skin scraped her, a warmly masculine sensation.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"I understand," she said, though with difficulty. "You have to put your effort where it will do the most good. It's the same in an emergency department."

"Reality's a bitch."

His tough sympathy, his honesty, meant more to her than if he had mouthed all the right platitudes, if he had tried to soothe her with well-meant lies. She squeezed his hand, then straightened her shoulders. "I have a lot to do today, so I'll get out of your way." He moved back, giving her room to stand. "Thank you," she said as she left.

Marc sighed as Karen left his office, her face colorless but calm. His chest felt tight. Damn it, her father had been murdered, and he couldn't do anything about it. As soon as he had gotten an ID on the body, the word had come down to move on to a more productive case. There wasn't any percentage in trying to solve a homeless murder, not that he had jack shit to go on anyway. It was just so damn frustrating. God, he had wanted to hold her, just pick her up and hold her on his lap and let her know she didn't

have to do this alone. But he hadn't, both because it was too soon and because to do so would have shattered her hard-won calm.

She had probably been acting calm and responsible since she was a child, forcing herself to become a little adult when she should have been carefree, playing with dolls and skipping rope. He saw it all the time: when there was only one parent left, and the child saw that parent struggling, the child would in effect become the parent, taking on responsibilities far beyond the child's age. She had probably taken over the housekeeping chores, made sure her tired mother had food waiting for her when she got home from work, done everything she could to lighten the load.

Karen had even gone into nursing, taking on even more responsibility. It was telling that she had then become her mother's sole support, completing the role reversal. She had probably called her mother by her given name rather than "Mom," at least part of the time, for the little girl had become the mother, and the mother had become the dependent. It was obvious she had adored her mother and so had been that much more protective.

She had spent her life taking care of others, and now he wanted to take care of her, wanted it with a fierceness that shook him. He was normally protective of women, but he had never before felt like this. Something inside him had altered, shifted, and he couldn't regret the change. Did she have any idea how valiant she was? Her dry comment the day before about women being shallow for having trouble committing to a cop because of the danger factor had been amusing, but she had meant it. Karen Whitlaw wouldn't walk away from a commitment because she was scared; she would be there, through the bad times as well as the good.

Whenever he had been in a relationship, Marc had kept his work out of it. Being called away on a case was unavoidable, but he hadn't brought the details home. He had always shielded his lady friends from the ugliness he saw, partly because of his own protective nature but also because he had never thought they would understand or be able to accept the part of his nature that made it possible for him to deal with the things he did. Perhaps he had underestimated the ladies in his life, but he had seen a lot of relationships destroyed by the pressures of the job, and he hadn't wanted to take the chance. He knew Karen wouldn't flinch. She would brace her shoulders and lift her chin, as he had seen her do several times when the pain and stress would almost overwhelm her. Most people would have broken down under the emotional burden she was carrying, but she had faced the situation squarely and controlled her tears until she was alone.