Paradise Valley (Virgin River #7)(94)

“Yeah? Like?”

Jerry kept his gaze level. “Oh, let’s see. A grandmother, by your account a very good woman, who devoted her life to you. A couple of outstanding mentors who stepped in to father you, support you, teach you. A girlfriend… Not many men find a girl, at such an early age, with the kind of commitment you described to me. And then a few traumatic things happened that—”

“I didn’t think I’d let them down like this….”

“Say what, Rick?”

“I thought the Marines would work for me….”

“Maybe they don’t feel let down. Maybe you got things from the Marines that are valuable, just muddy right now because of the trauma.”

“You don’t get it,” Rick said, sounding weaker. “That stuff can’t happen. We’re trained, alert. It’s not just one pair of eyes, it’s a unit. That’s how we got to be the strongest force in the free world.”

“Unexpected things happen…”

“It wasn’t an accident,” Rick said. “It was hostile, and our job is to evade hostile attack. I finished every training gig first in my group. First…”

Jerry paused. “The stuff that happened wasn’t your fault. Some bad, unfortunate things do happen to people without their participation. Like a wheel falling off a car, even though all the lugs were tight. Like—”

“Jerry,” Rick said, glassy-eyed, stopping him. “All the wheels fell off this car.”

Jerry leaned forward. “Rick, focus for just a second. Listen to me. I’m a crisis counselor—do you know what that means?” Rick stared blankly at him, but he went on anyway, knowing he might have to repeat this more than once. “It means that when a crisis occurs in the life of a perfectly normal person, I have the training to take that person by the hand and lead them through the fire and out the other side, where once again they’ll feel like a perfectly normal person who has dealt with trauma. That’s what we’re doing here, Rick. You and me. We’re going to get through this.”

Rick was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “I don’t buy it.”

Jerry sat back, relaxed. “You will.”

Fourteen

Brie Valenzuela wasn’t expecting clients, nor was she planning to go to the prosecutor’s office where she did consulting work. There was no court today, so she was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. It was a good day to catch up on paperwork. She sat at her desk in the office attached to her home, little Ness asleep in her swing beside the desk, when there was a knock at the office door.

She knew at once this was probably a business call as opposed to a friend dropping by. There was a front door to her house as well as an external office door, beside which a sign was mounted that read, Brie Valenzuela, Esquire. That door was always kept locked when she was alone and not expecting anyone. She went to the door and looked out the peephole. There was a man there, mid-thirties or so. The fact that he wasn’t scary looking didn’t influence the way Brie handled things. “Just a minute,” she said.

She moved Ness, swing and all, through the door that led from her office into the kitchen, without waking her. Then she closed the door adjoining her office to the house. Having been both a criminal prosecutor and the victim of a violent crime, Brie never relaxed her standards, not even in Virgin River. She tucked her Glock into the rear waistband of her jeans and opened the door. “Yes?”

“Are you Brie Valenzuela?”

“I am,” she said.

He put out his hand. “Ross Crawford. How do you do?”

“Well, this is unexpected,” she said, accepting the hand. “How can I help you?” she asked without inviting him farther into her office.

“I’m trying to find Abby,” he said. “She sold her town house, and her parents refuse to tell me where she is or deliver a message to her. The airline would only tell me she took an extended leave.”

“I’d be happy to forward a message. Would that help?” Brie asked.

“Yes, absolutely,” he said. “I really need to talk to her.”

Brie took a breath. “Mr. Crawford,” she said patiently, not at all oblivious to the fact that he didn’t look like a rock star. “I’m sure you realize that from this point on, your attorneys should do the talking. Your divorce has been final for some time and the settlement is satisfied.”

“Oh, it’s not about that exactly,” he said. He wore expensive jeans, no rips or tears or chains, a flawless white button-down rolled up at the sleeves, Italian boots. His hair was a bit on the shaggy side, attractively so and curling at his collar, and he was clean shaven. “It’s personal stuff.”

“All the same, Mr. Crawford.”

“Just call me Ross. Listen, I understand if you don’t want to tell me where she is—she wouldn’t want anything to do with me now. But if you could please contact her and tell her I’d like just a few minutes of her time—”

“Of course,” Brie said. “And where should I deliver her answer? That business manager’s address in Los Angeles?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Could you call her now, please? I’m sure you have the phone number. I’ll wait.”

“Mr…. Ross, I don’t think you should be too optimistic. Honestly, my advice to her will be that she decline. As I said, the conversation should be between—”