Whispers of You (Lost & Found #1)(21)

Jude’s eyes flashed. “You don’t know that. And if you’ve got a second chance, don’t waste it.” His cell buzzed on the table, and he picked it up. A second later, his fingers were flying across the screen. “I gotta bail. Missing hikers.”

“You on the team?” I asked as I stood to let him out of the booth.

Jude and Chris had both volunteered for search and rescue in high school, but for some reason, I thought they would’ve moved on to other things by now, and that maybe I’d been the one tethering them to that endeavor.

He nodded. “We’ve got a good crew. You should requalify. Come out with us sometime.”

A flicker of something lit inside me. Excitement, I realized. Not the false kind that came from an adrenaline dump on a job but the kind that came from purpose and helping others. I’d never let my certification lapse, but I hadn’t been on a team either. “I’ll talk to my dad about it.”

Jude clapped me on the shoulder. “Good. Glad you’re back.”

“Thanks.” It was all I could say, but his words meant more than he would ever know.

I slid back into the booth, glancing at Chris. His gaze was fixed on Jude.

“You okay?”

“Huh? Yeah.” He zeroed back in on me. He was quiet for a moment and then sighed as if giving in. “So, tell me about your coolest client. Please tell me you had some hot-as-hell affair with a Hollywood starlet.”

I choked on a laugh. “Sorry to disappoint.” But I told him my best stories from the job, and Chris caught me up on all the happenings in Cedar Ridge, studiously leaving Wren out of it. It didn’t exactly feel like old times—the conversation was stilted and awkward in a few places—but it was progress.

I snatched the bill, pulling some cash from my wallet. “Buying lunch is the least I can do as a thank you for giving me the time of day.”

“You don’t have to do that, man.”

“I want to.”

Chris slid out of the booth. “Then I won’t argue with you because that lunch was damned good.”

“I missed that turkey melt.”

He chuckled as we started for the door. “Nothing like the food you were raised on.”

“You’re so right.”

I collided with someone in the entryway. “Sorry—”

“Watch where you’re fuckin’ going,” the guy hissed as he wobbled a little.

I froze. It was like being hurtled back in time. The face was one of the few that haunted my nightmares.

“Keep moving, Joe,” Chris clipped.

“How ‘bout you assholes watch where you’re going?”

“Joseph Sullivan, you will watch your language in this establishment, or you’ll get your food elsewhere,” Jeanie said as she strode over.

“Whatever,” the teen muttered and headed for the door.

I still hadn’t moved. He looked just like him—the spitting image if it weren’t for the dyed black hair and a million facial piercings. And he certainly had Randy’s rage.

Jeanie made a tsking noise. “What that boy needs is some good parents in his life.”

“He’s not going to find them at home,” Chris murmured.

Much had been said in court about Randy’s alcoholic father and his missing-in-action mother, but in the end, it hadn’t helped with the sentencing. He and Paul were currently serving consecutive life sentences with no chance of parole.

“He’s angry, and I don’t blame him. This whole town looks at him like they’re waiting for him to turn into his brother,” Jeanie said.

My gut twisted with a combination of sympathy and unease. That kid was staying alive on rage and fear. I’d seen that kind of combination before.

And it was deadly.





8





WREN





“Guard my donuts for me while I’m out on this call, Little Williams?” Nash asked, lowering a bakery box in front of me.

Abel snorted from the cubicle next to us. “They’ll be gone before you’re even out the door.”

“Hey,” I said, tossing a paper clip.

He leaned back in his chair. “You know she’s got a thing for sweets.”

“Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first. It’s a good life motto.”

Nash tightened his grip on his donuts, raising the box away from my desk. “Will you watch my donuts, Abel?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re just like—” My words cut off. Holt. He was just like Holt with his obsession with food—pie, in particular. But food of all kinds was worthy of devotion.

Nash shifted uncomfortably and then opened the box. “You can have one. Just not the Boston cream.”

How pathetic must I have looked for Nash to offer me one of his precious confections? I forced a grin as I nabbed the strawberry one. “Works every time.”

Nash gaped at me. “You faked emotional distress to steal my donuts?”

The laugh that came was real, and it felt good. The sound hadn’t passed my lips since before I’d met Grae for lunch yesterday. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s a cliché for cops to eat donuts?”

Lawson swooped in and stole a glazed one. “I’ll take that cliché every single time.”