# To Love a Cop

Janice Kay Johnson

SHE'S SWORN TO PROTECT HER HEARTAfter what Laura Vennetti and her son have been through, she’s avoided all contact with the police. Then her son brings detective Ethan Winter into their lives. Despite how appealing—and gorgeous—he is, it’s safe to say Ethan isn’t her dream man.Immediately, though, Laura can see how different he is from her late husband. Ethan is thoughtful, considerate and a good influence on her son. Add in the intense attraction between her and Ethan… The temptation to give in is irresistible. To her surprise, Laura feels the wounds of the past healing, making her wonder if she could love this cop forever.

She’s sworn to protect her heart

After what Laura Vennetti and her son have been through, she’s avoided all contact with the police. Then her son brings detective Ethan Winter into their lives. Despite how appealing—and gorgeous—he is, it’s safe to say Ethan isn’t her dream man.

Immediately, though, Laura can see how different he is from her late husband. Ethan is thoughtful, considerate and a good influence on her son. Add in the intense attraction between her and Ethan… The temptation to give in is irresistible. To her surprise, Laura feels the wounds of the past healing, making her wonder if she could love this cop forever.

“You don’t want to come in?” Jake sounded disappointed.

Ethan looked across the front seat at Jake then toward the front of the Venettis’ house. “I’d better not.” Even though there was nothing Ethan would have liked better. But…Laura had had him to dinner. She’d blushed a couple of times. Once, their fingers had brushed when she passed him a dish, and she’d stopped talking midsentence and gone very still, a hint of yearning in her eyes.

Or so he’d convinced himself.

No, he wasn’t going to push it.

And…he’d better think long and hard before he spent any more time with Laura. He had a hard time picturing her having casual affairs. Anything else—well, they had some major strikes against them. It really might be smarter not to start anything.

But he waited until Jake let himself in the front door, only then acknowledging how disappointed he was not to catch a glimpse of Laura.

And admitting how much he wanted to see her again.

Dear Reader,

Writing this book made me think about being a mother, and how fierce that love is. My daughters are adults now, and yet I still feel protective of them. One is involved in international development work—she’s been to Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer and was in Nepal with a small nonprofit—while my older daughter has a high-stress job in the film industry. It’s not the same as when they were little and I agonized after a friend snubbed one of them, or watched as each headed off solo in a car, newly minted driver’s license in her wallet, but I still worry.

My quintessential, and most ridiculous, moment as a mother came years ago when we were camping with my parents. We were about to head into a limestone cavern in Montana when I discovered I was absolutely terrified of going underground. I mean knee-knocking, gasping panic attack. I knew I was afraid of heights, but this took me by surprise. Of course I could have slunk back down the trail to wait for my family to emerge from the caverns. In a burst of courage, I realized that if my kids were going to die in there, I would be there to die with them. So I took a deep breath and plunged in, overcoming my fear.

Ridiculous, right? But there was truth in that moment. I channel it when I’m writing a heroine like Laura Venetti, whose life has been all about her son since something terrible happened to him. But what is sexier than a man prepared to take on this boy and love him just as fiercely?

I hope you fall in love with Ethan, just as I did!

Janice Kay Johnson

USA TODAY Bestselling Author

To Love a Cop

Janice Kay Johnson


www.millsandboon.co.uk

An author of more than eighty books for children and adults, USA TODAY bestselling author JANICE KAY JOHNSON is especially well-known for her Mills & Boon Superromance novels about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her 2007 novel Snowbound won a RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America for Best Contemporary Series Romance. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She loves to read and is an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter. Visit her online at janicekayjohnson.com.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“WILL YOU LOOK at this,” a complete stranger said reverently.

Only a few feet away, among the crowd in the aisle between vendor tables at this opening day of the gun show, Ethan Winter couldn’t resist taking that look, even if the guy hadn’t been talking to him.

The price tag caught his eye first. $12,500. He had to shake his head, even if it was a Perazzi MX3 ORO twelve-gauge shotgun with original case lying there. Engraving, gold inlays, damn near mint condition.

Still nothing that would tempt him. After a moment, Ethan wandered on, leaving a cluster of men staring covetously at the shotgun and listening to the vendor expound on its virtues. His gaze continued to rove the exhibit hall, and he half listened to the buzz of conversation around him, picking out snippets here and there.

He wasn’t a collector, and wasn’t in the market for a new weapon. Like many in law enforcement, he carried a fourth-generation Glock .40 caliber and was accustomed to its feel at the range and on his hip. He had friends who liked to upgrade more often than he replaced his vehicles, and, sure, there were some nice handguns out there. Once in a while at the range, he’d try out something new and always handed it back without any inclination to whip out his credit card. His Glock had saved his life, and that was good enough for him.

He was here today to keep an eye on the crowd, not the merchandise. It was something of a personal mission he’d taken on the past few years, after watching and reading coverage of too many mass shootings, the weapons purchased at gun shows like this. He hadn’t told anyone else what he was doing. Odds were against him ever witnessing anything significant. Big as this exhibition hall at the Portland Expo Center was, a deranged individual could be buying an armory worth of weapons right this minute two aisles away without him seeing a thing.

Still...there hadn’t been anything special he’d wanted to do today. And you never knew.

To avoid standing out, he needed to look at something besides faces, though. He actually enjoyed studying some of the antique guns. In fact, a minute later he was contemplating a Confederate revolver, imported from England into New Orleans in 1861. He knew the A.B. Griswold revolver was often carried by Confederate officers. This one was in good enough condition to have a price tag of $9,500. He winced again.

“Man, that is so cool.”

He turned slowly, his attention caught by how youthful this voice sounded.

And, yeah, it was a kid standing at the next vendor, looking down at a semiautomatic rifle. Ethan carried a similar one in his police vehicle. The one for sale was equipped with a fixed sight. It looked, and was, lethal, manufactured for the tactical professional. The kid’s expression was eager enough to bother Ethan.

“You don’t look old enough to be shopping for anything like this,” the vendor said easily, and to his credit. Plenty of people brought their kids to gun shows, but Ethan didn’t see a parent nearby.

“Huh?” The boy lifted his head. “Oh, my dad’s around. I was just getting bored.”

“Ah.” The vendor, a middle-aged, balding man, started talking about the DDLE duty rifle’s effectiveness and versatility. The kid seemed to be drinking up every detail.

Ethan drifted on, but not far. He wondered a little about the boy, who, at a guess, might be thirteen, fourteen at the oldest. Hard to tell, when some boys shot up way younger, and others lagged. This one was skinny, five foot seven or eight, with dark hair and eyes. Seemed early for him to be out of school, but middle schools and high schools did let out pretty early in the afternoon. Still, Ethan didn’t see any other kids yet. Today was Friday, and the show had opened at noon. Right now it was—he checked his watch—barely two thirty. Most of the business would come on Saturday and Sunday, although the crowd so far was respectable and he’d seen a few sales taking place already.

The boy moved on, too. He appeared uninterested in the antique weapons, although he paused briefly to study a World War II “Liberator” .45 pistol, a strange looking, stubby weapon made by General Motors to be air-dropped to Resistance fighters in Europe. Maintaining a little distance between himself and the boy, Ethan paused to look at that one, too.

Mostly, the kid was fixated on semiautomatic handguns. The Heckler & Koch VP9, a new Beretta, the oversize Desert Eagle, an HK polymer-frame pistol with a barrel threaded to accept a suppressor.

And fixated was the word. He looked at every one of those damn guns with a hunger that disturbed Ethan. This kid could care less about .22 rifles, hunting rifles, BB guns. Nope, he was fascinated by handguns designed for the sole purpose of killing human beings.

And Dad was nowhere to be seen.

Nothing and no one else caught Ethan’s attention, so he kept wandering at roughly the same speed the boy did. Finally, curiosity overcame him and he stopped right next to the boy, who was currently studying a FNH FNP-40, another polymer handgun.

“I’ve fired that one,” Ethan said with a nod. “Nicely balanced.”

The kid looked at him eagerly. “Really? At the range?”

“Yeah, friend of mine has one. He says it felt like his best friend the first time he shot it.” Ethan was careful to keep his posture relaxed to avoid any hint of threat. He was a big man, towering over the kid.

The boy’s gaze slid to his holstered weapon. “That’s a Glock, isn’t it?” He was hungry still, but there was an extra hint of heat in those dark eyes taking in the butt of the Glock. It was as if he was looking at a favorite food that had made him sick the last time he’d eaten it.

Or maybe I’m imagining things, Ethan thought. “It’s a Glock 22,” he agreed.

“Are you a cop? Lots of cops carry those, don’t they?”

“They do, and I am.” Ethan held out his hand. “Detective Ethan Winter, Portland Police Bureau.”

They shook hands.

“So you don’t wear a uniform anymore? Or is this your day off?”

“It is my day off, but I don’t wear a uniform on the job, either, except for special occasions.”

“Do you work homicide?”

Ethan shook his head. “I may request a transfer there someday, but I’m currently part of the unit that investigates assaults and bias crimes.”

“What are you talking about, bias crimes?”

“We’re plugging up the works here.” Ethan nodded. “Let’s get out of the way so we’re not blocking the table.”

The vendor nodded his appreciation. “Can’t interest you in this FNP, Detective? Since you liked the feel?”

“I’m happy with what I carry. Familiarity is important.”

The man smiled and shrugged both. “Can’t argue with that.”

“What do you mean, familiarity?” the boy demanded as they stepped out of the way of traffic. They’d been close to the end of an aisle, and weren’t far from an exit.

“We don’t draw often except at the range,” Ethan explained. “You don’t want to fumble or hesitate when the moment comes you need to. The more you’ve used a particular weapon, the less you have to think about it, which allows you to focus on the situation.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “So how come you’re here, if you don’t want a new gun?”

Ethan gave his standard response. “I like to keep up on what’s out there.”

“’Cuz cops aren’t the only ones with guns.”

Feeling the rueful twist to his mouth, Ethan scanned the ever-growing crowd filling a hall that had to be sixty thousand square feet or more, packed with weaponry and shoppers. “You could say that.”

“Have you ever been shot?”

Ethan shook his head. Shot at, yes. Which wasn’t the same thing. “Hasn’t happened yet. I try not to make myself a target.” He raised an eyebrow. “You have a name?”

Alarm flickered in the boy’s eyes. “Oh. Um, yeah, but...my dad says I shouldn’t tell strangers my name. You know.” He started shuffling backward. “I should go find Dad now anyway. He might worry. I’ll, um, maybe see ’ya.”

The clear subtext was, But not if I see you first.

He awkwardly flipped a hand and melted into the crowd. Only he didn’t wander slowly and browse this time. He walked fast, casting a couple of looks back over his shoulder.

Ethan went down the next aisle, keeping pace. If the kid thought he’d lost him—

But one of those darted glances back spotted Ethan, who cursed his height, and not for the first time.

Alarm segued into panic, and the boy began pushing through the crowd, his eye fixed on the doors that led outside. He was quick, and small enough to squeeze between people where Ethan had to bull his way, so he reached the exit first.

So much for the fiction of a father elsewhere in the exhibition hall.

Ethan stepped out and momentarily failed to see him. More people were streaming in, either from the parking lot or the covered walkway that led—

Oh, yeah, there he was, and running now.

Ethan broke into a run, too, unsure why he was so determined to get his hands on this kid, but set on it anyway. The boy couldn’t possibly be old enough to drive, which meant a bus or the light-rail.

Sure enough, he was headed for the light-rail station. Ethan didn’t see a train, but knew they ran often between the expo center and downtown, something like every fifteen minutes.

Eight or ten people waited beneath a shelter. No restroom to disappear into. The boy tucked himself behind a family group as if he thought Ethan would assume he belonged.

When he saw Ethan’s jog settle to a purposeful stride, he took a few steps back, his head turning in panic, but, with the rails behind him, there was nowhere to go.

“Excuse me,” Ethan murmured as he sliced through the cluster of people.

“I don’t know this man!” the boy cried. “He’s been following me.” He shuffled his feet, edging behind a beefy guy whose gaze first dropped to the holstered gun on Ethan’s belt, then rose to meet his eyes in challenge.

Ethan dipped a hand in his pocket and held up his badge. “The boy knows why I want to talk to him.”

The kid’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

They all heard the train coming. Ethan latched a hand around the boy’s skinny upper arm.

“I didn’t say you did. But we need to talk.”

“Can’t I just go home?” he begged. “All I wanted was to look.”

“I’ll be glad to take you home,” Ethan agreed.

The white bullet-like light-rail train glided to a stop and disgorged a whole lot of people. Everyone waiting climbed aboard. Ethan turned his young captive back the way they’d come.

He deliberately dawdled so they fell behind the eager beavers headed for the expo center. He had the time now to assess the boy, who was good-looking and dressed in blue jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt and expensive, gleaming white athletic shoes. Common for his age, his feet looked too big to go with the rest of him. This was no homeless kid—somebody bought him nice clothes, kept them clean, trimmed his hair regularly. At first sight, Ethan would have guessed Hispanic, but wasn’t so sure now despite the near-black hair and brown eyes.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me your name?” he asked.

The boy shot him a defiant look. “Why should I?”

“Because I’m a police officer, and I asked. Because I suspect you cut school to come to the gun show.”

Ethan felt like a jerk when the kid’s lower lip trembled.

“Mom is going to be so mad.”

“What about Dad?”

This sidelong look glittered with tears. “Dad’s dead.”

Truth at last. “How old are you?” Ethan asked, more gently.

The answer was a mumble. Ethan raised his eyebrows.

“Eleven.”

He blinked as he calculated. “That means you’re not even in middle school.”

The boy shook his head. “I’m in sixth grade. I left after lunch.”

“It ever occur to you that the school probably let your mother know you’d disappeared?”

His mouth fell open in horror. “I thought since I was there in the morning when they did roll call...”

Ethan nudged him toward the parking lot. “I can pretty well guarantee somebody noticed you weren’t there come afternoon.”

“Oh, man.” He raised desperate eyes to Ethan’s. “Please don’t tell her where I was! She hates guns. She’ll freak!”

“What were you going to tell her if she found out you took off?” he asked, keeping his voice easy to encourage continuing confidences.

“I don’t know.” Back to mumbling. “Just that, like, I had a fight with one of my friends or something.”

Ethan drew him to a stop beside his GMC Yukon. “Here’s your ride.”

His head turned back toward the light-rail station. “I’ll go straight home, I swear! Please, mister. I mean, Detective.”

Ethan shook his head. “We’ll talk to your mom. She may be more understanding than you think she will be.”

“She won’t! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“In,” Ethan said inflexibly, holding open the passenger door.

As he walked around to the driver’s side, he watched through the windshield in case the kid tried to make a break for it. All he did was slump in defeat.

Once Ethan was in, he hit the button to lock the doors. “All right,” he said. “No more dancing around. I need your name.”

The kid jerked a one-shoulder shrug and mumbled again, although this time Ethan heard him. “Jake Vennetti.”

“Vennetti.” Oh, damn. Why hadn’t he seen the resemblance right away? “Your father was Matt Vennetti.”

Jake sneaked a look sidelong with those chocolate-brown eyes just like his father’s. “Yeah.”

Ethan opened his mouth and closed it before he could say aloud what he was thinking. Oh, shit. Jake was right; his mother was going to freak. She had good reason to hate guns.

In fact, this boy, sitting beside Ethan, had to be the one who’d gotten his hands on his father’s service weapon and accidentally shot another kid, who died. From there, the tragedy had cascaded. In the end, Portland Police Bureau Officer Matt Vennetti had ended up killing himself. Not with the same gun, but he’d swallowed a gun nonetheless. It all happened—Ethan wasn’t sure. Five years ago? Six? He knew Matt’s only son was a little boy and not to blame, which wasn’t to say he didn’t blame himself.

“I went to your father’s funeral,” he said quietly. Despite his rage at a man who’d leave that kind of burden on his wife and child. “Your dad and I rode patrol together early on.”

Head ducked, Jake didn’t respond.

Perturbed, Ethan said, “I can look up your address if I have to. Why don’t you just give me directions.”

“Like I have any choice,” the boy spat.

Ethan started the engine. “You didn’t do anything so bad today. I cut school in my time, too.”

Jake turned his head sharply away. Ethan had a bad feeling it was to hide tears.

* * *

WHERE COULD HE BE?

Laura Vennetti paced, her phone clutched in her hand. Fear squeezed her heart. She’d be purely mad instead of scared if Jake had ever done anything like this before, but he hadn’t. It wasn’t like him at all. He was a good student. Never in trouble. She’d fear a kidnapping if a classmate hadn’t reluctantly told the principal that he’d seen Jake get on a city bus.

He’d been gone hours now. School had let out. She’d called all his friends, none of whom would admit to knowing his plans, although it was hard to tell with preteen boys, who seemed to communicate primarily in grunts and hoots.

“I swear I’ll ground him until he leaves for college.” The sound of her voice was meant to fill the silence. Instead, it seemed to echo, leaving her even more conscious of being alone in the house. She reached the back door and swung around to stalk through the kitchen and dining room into the living room. “I won’t let him leave for college. He doesn’t deserve—” Her voice broke.

She’d thought it was dumb for a boy his age to carry a phone, but she had just changed her mind. If he was in trouble, how could he call her? There weren’t many pay phones anymore, and he might not have money with him anyway, and she discouraged him from talking to strangers.

Maybe it was time to report him missing to the police. Her gaze went to the clock on the DVD player. No, it wasn’t even four yet. Kids cut class all the time. Nobody would take her seriously.

Soon.

She heard a deep engine outside and rushed to the front window. A black SUV had pulled up to the curb in front of her house. The passenger side door opened and—

Laura clapped a hand over her mouth. Thank you, God. Thank you. She raced for the front door and flung it open. Her son lifted his head and saw her, then, ducking his head again, trudged across the lawn toward the porch. She was barely aware that a man had gotten out, too, and came around the big SUV to follow Jake.

She planted her fists on her hips in lieu of bounding down the porch steps and snatching him into her arms. “Where have you been? Do you have any idea how scared I was?”

He sneaked a shamed look at her. “I didn’t think the school would call you.”

The man came to a stop behind Jake and laid a large hand on his shoulder. She thought he squeezed, just a little, before letting the hand drop. Laura had to lift her gaze a long way to the man’s face. He was...well, not a foot taller than Jake, but a whole lot taller. He had to be six foot three or four.

Her heart drummed for an entirely different reason now. Calm eyes she thought were hazel held hers. His hair was brown, but not as dark as Jake’s, or as her Italian husband’s had been. He might not be male-model handsome, but came close, with a strong jaw, prominent cheekbones and a high-bridged nose. He had broad shoulders and the long, lean build of a basketball player. Standing so close to him, Jake was dwarfed.

“Jake.” She heard how sharp her voice was. “Come here. Right now.”

The stranger arched dark brows but stayed where he was when Jake slouched his way up the steps onto the porch. She pushed him behind her into the house.

Only then did she see that the stranger wore a gun.

“Who are you?” She sounded hysterical, with good reason.

“Ms. Vennetti.” He nodded. “I’m Detective Ethan Winter, with PPB.”

A police officer had brought her son home. Dread closed her throat. She had to swallow before she could ask, in a harsh whisper, “What did he do?”

“Nothing more serious than cut school.” That slow, deep voice was as calming as his steady gaze. “I was hoping to talk to you for a minute, though.”

She bit her lip and gave a choppy nod. “Come in, then.” She turned to find Jake hovering on the other side of the living room. “Go to your room,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later, after I’ve heard what Detective Winter has to say.”

“I didn’t do—”

“Your room,” she snapped.

His expression stormy, he thought about defying her, but the moment lasted a matter of seconds before he bolted for his bedroom. The door slammed hard enough to make pictures on the wall bounce. Laura closed her eyes, prayed for strength and once again faced the police officer who had brought Jake home.

He stepped inside, his shoulder brushing her, his gaze skimming the room in what she guessed was automatic assessment.

“Please, have a seat,” she said, and closed the front door.

He hesitated momentarily, making her aware none of the furniture was built on a scale for a man his size, then chose one end of the sofa. She sat in her favorite easy chair facing him over the coffee table.

“I knew your husband,” he said abruptly. “We patrolled together for about a year early on in our careers. I’d been on the job a little longer than Matt had, but not much.”

She suddenly felt stripped bare. All she could do was hold up her chin. “So I suppose you know our whole history.”

A couple of lines deepened on his forehead. “Your whole history? No. I remember hearing about the accident, and I was sorry about what happened with Matt. I actually came to the funeral. You and I spoke briefly afterward.”

She had been mercifully numb by that time. She remembered a succession of police officers, all in uniform, one by one expressing their regrets. Some she knew, many she didn’t. She had been grateful they had come. If they hadn’t, who would have? Her own family was so small. And Matt’s—

Laura shook off that memory.

“Where did you find Jake?”

“The gun show out at the Expo Center.”

“What?” She half stood, then made herself resume her seat. Oh, dear God.

“I didn’t recognize him. I was only concerned because I thought he must have cut school.”

“He did.”

He bent his head in agreement. “He admitted he had. He says he’s eleven? I guessed him to be older than that.”

“He’s tall for his age. And...mature looking.” Jake’s looks had come from his dad. The resemblance was becoming more striking all the time. She tried to hide how that made her feel.

Detective Winter sighed and rolled his shoulders a little. “I’ll be honest. I might not have paid as much attention if he’d been looking at BB guns like you’d expect a kid to do. But he wasn’t. He seemed a little too interested in the kind of handgun I carry. I thought you needed to know that he’d cut school because he wanted real bad to finger some Sig Sauers and Berettas and the like.”

She looked pointedly at the big black gun at his hip.

“I carry a weapon because my job demands it,” he said, more mildly than she probably deserved.

After a moment, she nodded.

“Were you aware of his interest, Ms. Vennetti?”

She started to shake her head, squeezed her eyes shut and finally nodded. When she met his eyes, she knew she wasn’t hiding her desperation. But she hadn’t had anybody to talk to about this. Hadn’t wanted anyone else to know. Certainly not her sister or brother-in-law. What if they decided Jake was a danger to their kids?

“I— He was only five and a half when it happened.”

The kindness and sympathy in this man’s expression made her feel shaky. She didn’t want to be weakened, but...was it so bad, just for a minute, to feel grateful for someone who seemed to understand? “A little boy,” he said. “Too young to know the difference between a real gun and a toy gun.”

Her head bobbed. “Yes. Except... The boy who died was Jake’s first cousin, Marco. They were best friends. It was really gruesome. The bullet hit him in the head.” She hardly knew her hand had lifted and that she was lightly touching her cheek, letting him know where the bullet had entered Marco’s head. “I don’t think Jake will ever forget.”

As if she could.

“No.”

“He didn’t see his father, thank heavens. At least Matt didn’t do that to us,” she said bitterly.

“But you found him.”

She shuddered. “Yes.”

Detective Winter swore, rose to his feet and came to her, sitting on the coffee table close enough for him to take her hands. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to carry something like that with you.”

She had the oddest moment of bemusement. A man was holding her hands in a warm, comforting clasp. He leaned forward in concern, so close to her that she saw his eyes were hazel, mostly green streaked with gold, and that his lashes were short but thick. If she were to lift her hand to his hard jaw, she’d feel the rasp of his late afternoon beard growing in.

A near complete stranger was holding her hands.

She could not afford to think of him as a man. He wasn’t here because he was interested in her. He was here because he’d caught Jake at a gun show.

All her fears rushed back. Even so, she couldn’t make herself retreat from that comforting clasp. She looked down to see the way his thumbs moved gently, almost caressingly, on the backs of her hands.

“I put him in counseling, of course,” she said in a stifled voice. “He...regressed, after Matt killed himself.”

“Of course he would.”

She nodded. “But he’s done really well. He makes friends. He’s close to a straight-A student. I thought...I thought we were through any danger period.”

Detective Winter waited with seemingly limitless patience. Ethan, that was his first name, she thought, finding it fit the man.

“Only, recently I’ve caught him watching TV shows he knows I don’t allow. All he seems to want to watch are police shows. There’s that reality one.” He nodded. “And he’s slipped a few times and said things, so I know he’s seeing some pretty violent stuff at friends’ houses. Movies I’d never let him go to or rent. And when the news is dominated by some awful crime, he’ll stay glued to CNN or whatever channel follows it.”

“He’s a teenage boy. His father was a police officer. His interest might be natural.”

“Why would he admire that, given what happened because his father carried a gun?” she said sharply.

Detective Winter’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t say anything. He straightened a little, though, and his clasp on her hands loosened.

“And then I was changing the sheets on Jake’s bed,” she went on, her voice slowing. “I found some gun catalogs under the mattress.” She gave a sad excuse for a laugh. “Playboy magazine wouldn’t have shocked me. These...seemed way more obscene.”

“Understandably.”

“And now this.” She searched his face, as if she’d find any answers.

“Matt must have had friends Jake could talk to about some of this.”

“Friends?” She huffed. “You mean from the department? No, they all did a disappearing act. He was probably their worst nightmare come true. Why hang around to watch the epilogue?”

The detective’s dark eyebrows snapped together. “None of his friends on the job stuck around to be sure you and Jake were all right?”

“No. I quit hearing from the wives right away, too. I definitely embodied their worst nightmares.” She didn’t admit that, as angry as she’d been, Matt’s cop friends and their wives were the last people she’d have wanted to hear from or see. She might have ignored their calls.

Had ignored some.

But there hadn’t been all that many, and they’d tailed off within a couple of weeks. Nobody had been persistent enough to come by when she couldn’t be reached by phone. Out of sight, out of mind.

“You have family?” he asked.

“My sister and her husband and kids. They’re the only reason I didn’t move away. Sometimes I think I should have.”

Those eyes, clear as they were, had somehow softened now. “Fewer reminders.”

“For Jake,” she said briskly, sitting straighter and sliding her hands from his. She watched as he flattened them on his chino-clad thighs, long, taut muscles outlined beneath the cotton fabric. “I could move to Beijing and I wouldn’t forget a thing.”

He saw deeper than she liked. “Matt had a big family.”

“Yes, he did.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember seeing them at his funeral.”

“That’s because they weren’t there.”

“His parents didn’t come to his funeral.”

“Nope.” Anger had long since buried any pain at that loss. She lived with a whole lot of anger. “Neither did a single one of his three brothers and two sisters.”

“They ditched you?” he said incredulously. “Because of a tragic accident?”

“Marco’s father, Rinaldo, is the brother Matt was closest to. They had...a really horrible scene and never spoke again. I thought...after Matt died...” She grimaced. “But no. Either they held Jake responsible even if he was only five years old, or they blamed me.” For good reason.

“What did you say?” This man, this stranger, was glowering at her.

She gaped at him.

“You think it was your fault?”

Oh, no. She’d said that aloud.

But it was the truth.

“I went outside to water the annuals in pots and left two five-year-old boys alone in the house.” For five or ten minutes. That’s all. But it had been long enough. “I should have checked first to be sure Matt locked up his gun. I’d gotten so I usually did, because he was so careless with it. But that one time...that one time...” Her voice wobbled. She couldn’t finish.

He gripped one of her hands again. “Laura. It is Laura, right?”

“How did you know?”

He shook his head. “It stuck in my mind. The gun was Matt’s. Not yours.” His jaw muscles flexed, and his gaze bored into hers. “He’d carried it for years. He was a professional. He knew better. Him leaving that damn gun where his little boy could get his hands on it was not your responsibility.”

There was so much grit in those last words, she quailed. Then she squared her shoulders. “I did a couple of things wrong that, coupled with what Matt did wrong, led to something horrible. I will not forget my part.”

Ethan Winter just shook his head.

“Would you take advice from me?”

She eyed him warily. “It depends what that advice is.”

“I saw Jake’s expression when he looked at those guns today. Whatever is going on in his head is powerful. You’re not going to be able to stamp it out by making guns taboo. I’d strongly suggest you consider enrolling him in a gun safety class—”

This time, she jerked back, pulling her hand from his and curling both hands into fists. “You think I should put a gun in his hands? No! No, no, no. I swore I would never allow one in my house again.” She glared at his holstered weapon. “I shouldn’t have let you in. Not carrying that.”

His eyebrows drew together. The silence bristled with too much said. After a moment he nodded and pushed himself to his feet.

“I’ll leave, then. I think you’re wrong, but you have a right to make the decision.”

Her “thank you” rang of sarcasm.

He took a business card from a pocket. “My cell phone number is on the back. If there’s anything I can do for you or Jake, call.”

She was careful not to let her fingers touch his as she took the card, then looked down at it. Detective Ethan Winter. What did he mean by anything? Would he show up if she needed wood split next winter? A ride to work when her car was in the shop?

“May I say goodbye to Jake?” he asked.

He’d been...nice. She hadn’t. Taking a deep breath, she nodded.

She stayed where he was when he went down the hall. Heard him rap on the door, then the bass rumble of his voice, but couldn’t make out words or hear anything Jake said.

A minute later, the detective came back down the hall. She stood to see him out. He nodded politely as he passed her and crossed the porch, his expression cop-guarded.

“Detective,” she said to his back.

He paused at the foot of the stairs.

She made herself say it. “Thank you. For bringing Jake home, and for listening to me.”

He turned at that, searching her face. “I meant it,” he said. “If he does anything that worries you, or you need to talk, call me.”

Why did he care? The fact that he so obviously did caused a lump to swell in her throat. Around it, Laura said again, “Thank you.”

He dipped his head one more time, acknowledging her words, then crossed her small front yard with his long, fluid stride, got into his SUV and drove away without, as far as she could see, so much as looking back.

CHAPTER TWO

THE WAITRESS SLID the plate with his food in front of Ethan, and he glanced up from his phone. “Thanks.”

Damn, had her breast brushed his shoulder, or had he imagined it?

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, her voice just a little sultry.

Maybe she couldn’t help sounding that way.

“Not right now. Thanks.”

The hamburger and French fries smelled really good. He set aside the phone, on which he’d been checking email. A day off didn’t mean he didn’t want to know what he was missing. Along with several other active cases, he had been working a disturbing series of residential vandalisms. Four so far. All the owners had last names that sounded Jewish. Most of the shit he dealt with these days was anti-gay, with some anti-Muslim and anti-black thrown in for variety. Anti-Semitic, that was more unusual, in this part of the country anyway.

The ironic thing was, only two of the families were actually practicing Jews. The husband and father whose home had been hit most recently had shaken his head in bewilderment. “I’m Lutheran. The family has intermarried so much since my great-great-whatever came through Ellis Island, calling me Jewish is like calling some mutt at the animal shelter a golden retriever when he’s short-haired, has stubby legs and stand-up ears but just happens to be yellow.” His face had hardened. “My last name is Finkel, but until now that didn’t mean anything.”

The swastika spray painted in red on his driveway had been blurred by water shooting from the firefighters’ hoses, but he hadn’t been able to look away from it. Ethan didn’t blame him. He’d asked and learned that the Finkel coming through Ellis Island had emigrated in late 1937 from Austria. Just in time.

This was the first fire that had been set. The punk or punks doing this had used spray paint, thrown eggs and pitched rocks through the windows of the first couple houses. The third had included a mannequin left sprawled on her back on the lawn with her legs splayed, her head bald and her teeth removed. She’d worn a yellow armband with the Star of David. The implications and the threat were clear. These vandals had done their research.

Ethan still had that mannequin on his mind. No stores had reported a break-in or a display mannequin stolen, but he kept thinking that wasn’t an easy thing to get your hands on, especially if you were a teenager. Order one online? What if Mom is the one home when it arrives? No. In pockets of time, he’d made calls to stores, asking whether they’d had one disappear. If he could find out, it would give him a string to pull.

The few witnesses thought, as he did, that the perpetrators were young. Late teens, maybe early twenties, losers who were desperate for a cause to give meaning to their lives. They were getting bolder, escalating with each exhilarating outing.

Ethan really wanted to get his hands on them before someone was injured or killed.

The fire had been minor and put out quick enough to avoid significant structural damage. A second detective from his unit had been assigned to work with him, Sam Clayton. He’d also now acquired an additional, temporary partner, Lieutenant David Pomeroy of PF & R—Portland Fire & Rescue—a fire investigator.

Right now, they were all in waiting mode, which he particularly disliked. There were a lot of names in the Portland, Oregon, telephone directory that might be construed as Jewish. How the particular victims had been targeted was one of the mysteries, although he suspected the phone book since all four home owners thus far still had landlines and none had unlisted numbers.

The part that had him most uneasy was that all four families hit had last names beginning with the letters E and F. What’s more, the attacks had taken place in alphabetical order. Which meant the assailant/s could spell, too.

He’d scoured police reports and community newspapers in search of any hint that there’d been earlier instances of vandalism. Maybe more minor. Otherwise, damn it, why start with Eckstein? Why not Abrams? There had to be a reason.

He picked up the burger and began eating. His thoughts reverted immediately to Laura and Jake Vennetti, as they’d tended to do since he left their house earlier. He had a bad feeling he’d called up email in a deliberate attempt to distract himself.

What he’d been evading was the knowledge that he’d been instantly and powerfully attracted to Matt Vennetti’s widow. The rational part of him knew he had nothing to be ashamed of; Matt had killed himself over five years ago. Given her looks, he had to wonder why she hadn’t remarried.

Frowning, Ethan took a long swallow of beer. No, she wasn’t a beauty, not exactly—he doubted guys trailed her around with their tongues hanging out, although given half a chance he might do just that. Shoulder-length hair was somewhere in that dark blond, light brown range that meant she’d definitely been blonde as a kid, and probably still would be if she spent any time out in the sun come summer. Sun-streaked or not, her hair was thick, straight and shiny. His fingers had itched to discover the texture. A few freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, giving her that girl-next-door look, belied by blue eyes darkened by pain and anger and fear. He wondered if they’d once been brighter.

She was taller than her son when she’d swept him behind her, which meant she was at least five foot eight or nine, no more than an inch or two shorter than Matt had been. Given that Jake was only eleven, it looked as though he’d gained his tall genes from his mother.

She had some serious curves, too, the kind men loved and women fought with never-ending diets. When she turned her back on him, he’d been riveted by a firm, generous ass and tiny waist. Face-to-face...

He grunted unhappily and took another swig of beer, his hamburger in his other hand.

Face-to-face...well, it wasn’t her face he wanted to look at. Her breasts wouldn’t tickle his palms, they’d fill his hands.

And it wasn’t happening. His mouth twisted as he remembered the scathing way she said, I shouldn’t have let you in. Yeah, safe to say he wasn’t her dream man.

Clearly, he didn’t need to do battle with his qualms about lusting after a—well, not a friend’s—a fellow officer’s widow. She’d made clear she would prefer he not come knocking on her door again. Which was fine; he’d been married to a woman who came to abhor his job. Once around was enough for him.

For the boy’s sake, though, he hoped Laura changed her mind, or at least thought about what he’d said. Ethan couldn’t see Jake as likely to go on a shooting rampage, but if he didn’t untangle his feelings, who knew what would happen? Hormones hadn’t hit yet. Ethan hadn’t liked the dark look on his face in that single moment before he raced for his bedroom.

She might not want a gun in the house, and Ethan could even sympathize. But Jake wanted, real bad, to get his hands on one, and where there was a will, there was a way.

Right now, Ethan doubted even Jake knew what he wanted to do with that gun once he had it. Why would he admire that, she’d asked, given what happened because his father carried a gun?

Who said admiration was what Jake felt? He’d been abandoned by his father in the most devastating way possible, shunned by his father’s family. Self-loathing struck Ethan as a likelier possibility. And teenage suicide was all too common.

Ethan finished his hamburger and started in on the French fries, hardly tasting them. He was frustrated by his inability to get through to Laura, yet painfully aware he had no moral high ground here.

When he’d expressed anger at Matt’s buddies on the job, she’d been polite enough not to say, So where were you? Ethan had almost opened his mouth to defend himself anyway, to say, We weren’t really friends. Damn it, he had friends. But the truth is, at the funeral Ethan had looked at Matt’s widow and small, bewildered son, and resolved to check up on them, be sure they were all right. Half the officers there had probably thought the same thing. He’d also vaguely assumed Matt Vennetti’s closer friends would step in to help her out, but that was no excuse.

She’d have been right to paint him with the same brush.

Pushing his empty plate away, Ethan pictured her face. Not when she blazed with anger, but when she had looked at him with such vulnerability and bewilderment. The expression wasn’t so different from the one he’d seen on her boy’s face when he said with such despair, “Mom is going to be so mad.”

Ethan sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, then reached for his wallet when he saw the waitress bearing down on his table with his tab, a flirtatious smile on her face and a swing to her hips. Okay, he hadn’t misread the tone of voice. She had plenty of curves, and he felt...nothing.

He was pleasant as he signed his credit card slip, then slid out of the booth and walked from the restaurant, noting faces, aware of people in the parking lot, passing vehicles.

Behind the wheel of his Yukon, he inserted the key but, still brooding, didn’t immediately turn it.

He hoped Laura would think twice and call him—but if she didn’t, he’d call her. Just to make sure she and Jake were okay. To let her know he’d meant it. And then he’d let a couple of weeks go by and call again.

This time, he wouldn’t forget. She might not like it, but she needed someone, and he had a feeling there wasn’t anyone else.

And damned if he was going to worry about the subterranean reasons behind the determination he felt to look out for this woman and boy.

* * *

“I’LL PROBABLY GET DETENTION,” Jake grumbled.

Laura poured pancake batter onto the griddle. “You probably will.” She refrained from adding, And you deserve to.

After she woke him up, he’d dragged himself into the kitchen this morning wearing pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips and carrying a T-shirt he pulled over his head as she watched. His chest and rib cage were ridiculously pale and skinny. Anyone looking at him would think she was starving him.

“Get the juice out of the fridge, will you?” she asked.

His bare feet were silent on the vinyl floor. Not until she turned her head did she see he had the orange juice carton tipped up and was drinking right out of it.

“Jacob Vennetti!” With her free hand, she grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him.

He dodged it effortlessly. His grin made her heart hurt. He couldn’t smile like that if he was really troubled, could he?

She flipped pancakes. “Grab the margarine and syrup, too.”

He complied. He was enthusiastic about meals.

And guns.

How could that be?

She plopped a plate holding the first stack in front of him before turning back to make more.

Behind her, he whined, “If I have to stay home this weekend, what am I supposed to do?”

“I’m sure I can think of something.” They’d been talking about scraping the several coats of peeling paint off the back deck and repainting. This was day three of dry weather, and they ought to take advantage of it, she reflected. April was a rainy month in Portland. As were...well, most months. Even in July, you took a chance planning something like an outdoor wedding around here.

Unfortunately, she was working today, as she did one or two Saturdays a month, and didn’t have time to find what he’d need to start and give him instructions.

He stuffed his mouth full as she set down a platter with more pancakes in the middle of the table and pulled out a chair herself.

“I wish I was playing Little League,” he grumbled.

“In February, you didn’t want to sign up.”

He shrugged discontentedly. She’d supported his decision, mostly because neither of them liked his coach last year and he’d have been on the same team this year. Maybe that was part of his problem, she thought, buttering her pancakes and adding a dollop of maple syrup. Maybe he had too much time on his hands. A couple of his better friends were playing baseball, which ate up a lot of their spare time.

“There are summer camps,” she pointed out. “Baseball and basketball.”

“I could do both,” he said hopefully.

Laura barely hesitated. She’d worry about the money later. Camps weren’t cheap, and she knew he’d need new basketball shoes and new cleats for baseball. All those calories he was packing in were being used for growing. “I don’t know why not,” she said. “See what Ron and Justin plan to do.”

He bent his head and didn’t say anything. Laura’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t mentioned Ron recently. And...when had either boy last called? She ached to ask if something was wrong, but wanted to preserve this morning’s tentative peace.

“How come you won’t tell me what Detective Winter said about me?” he burst out.

She swallowed a bite. Pancakes would go straight to her butt and she shouldn’t be eating them at all, but it was really hard to cook stuff like this and not eat it.

“You’re ignoring me,” he declared indignantly.

She met his eyes. “I’m refusing to repeat myself, that’s all. But since you insist, one more time—I doubt he said anything to me that he didn’t to you.”

He looked sulky. “You talked to him for ages.”

She didn’t even want to think about her conversation with Detective Ethan Winter. Not when it included them holding hands. Not when she had imagined what it would feel like to have his arms around her. To lean against him, lay her head on his very broad shoulder. Feel his lips—

No, she hadn’t imagined that until later, after Jake was in bed and she was alone. That fleeting fantasy had been especially vivid. It had horrified her to the point where she’d resolved not to think about him at all. If she ever got involved with a man again, he wouldn’t be in law enforcement. He wouldn’t carry a gun as casually as she did her purse.

Ethan Winter was off-limits, even assuming he’d been interested and not just...kind. Concerned about Jake. If his gaze had drifted from her face to her breasts, it was probably because he wasn’t being straight with her and didn’t want to meet her eyes.

Only, she didn’t quite believe that, either.

“He said I could call him if I ever need him,” her son said.

Jolted from her silent lecture to herself, she gaped at Jake. “He asked you to call?”

His face was set in stubborn lines. “He said I could if I want.”

“Why did he think you’d want to?”

He shrugged.

“Are there things you’d say to him that you don’t want to say to me?” She was proud of how calm she sounded.

“Maybe,” he muttered. He stole a peek at her. “’Cuz he’s a guy.”

“So is Uncle Brian. And you like some of your friend’s dads.”

“Yeah, but they’re not—you know.”

Cops. They weren’t cops. They didn’t carry guns. Not a one of them even owned a gun. She hoped. She knew her sister’s husband didn’t.

“You know we can talk about your dad whenever you want.”

He sneered. There was no other word for it. “You hate it when I ask about his job!”

“It’s not that.” Yes, it was. No, it wasn’t, not entirely anyway. “Your father didn’t like to talk about what he did,” she said, although that wasn’t quite right, either. He did like to brag, but he’d never talk about things going wrong, and she always knew when he was especially closed off that he’d seen something awful. He’d go out to a bar instead, to hang with his cop friends. Sometimes every night for days on end, stumbling home drunk, until she’d been forced to confront how peripheral her role in his life was.

Some of that, he couldn’t help, she knew, given his upbringing. He’d been...old-fashioned, believing women were to be protected. He hadn’t been crazy about her continuing to work, although thank God she had an employment history, given that suicide invalidated his life insurance policy. Had he given that a moment’s thought before checking out on his responsibilities? she asked herself for the thousandth time, and knew the answer: no. Or if he had, worry about his wife and child’s future hadn’t weighed heavily enough against the shame he was facing. Guilt, too; she knew he’d felt it, but was petty enough to believe in the end what he couldn’t face was the loss of everything that in his eyes made him a man.

Jake jumped up, his chair scraping back. “See? You won’t talk about it! You never do.”

He raced out of the kitchen. The slam of his bedroom door was becoming all-too familiar.

Appetite gone, she stared down at her half-eaten pancakes.

Dear God, she thought, he’s right. There was so much she didn’t want to say about Matt, it stifled her every time Jake asked questions. She’d told herself she was protecting him—but maybe it was herself she needed to protect.

Weary and discouraged, she stood and began to clear the table, scraping sticky lumps of pancake into the trash under the sink. Jake, she couldn’t help noticing, had cleared his plate before he stormed out.

The dishwasher loaded, she leaned against the edge of the counter. She had to try to talk to him...but how was she supposed to know what to say, and what she shouldn’t say? Sometimes she thought having a daughter would have been way easier—but maybe she was wrong. It wasn’t as though she understood herself very well lately, either.

Her gaze strayed to the wooden organizer at one end of the counter that held things like phone books, notepads, pens, paper clips and stamps. She’d dropped the card Ethan Winter had given her in one of the small drawers, telling herself she’d never want it but not quite willing to throw it away. She hated the pull it exerted on her.

He’d have that cop mentality, too. Just because he’d been concerned about Jake and nice to her didn’t mean he was anyone she would ever turn to.

Maybe it was time for her to think about putting Jake in counseling again.

Filing the idea for the moment, she closed her eyes, girded herself and went down the hall to knock on Jake’s door.

* * *

SHE’D FORBIDDEN JAKE to leave the house while she was at work, and was confident he hadn’t. She’d called twice, and he answered the phone both times, but predictably was furious that she was “checking up on him.”

Well, yes.

The week deteriorated from there. Sunday he helped her start scraping the deck, but complained so much she’d have rather done it alone.

He was mad that she insisted he go home after school with his cousins and wait there until she picked him up after she got off work. Why couldn’t he just go home?

“Because it’s going to take time before I believe you’re trustworthy enough again,” she said.

“Everybody cuts school!”

She gritted her teeth. “I don’t care what ‘everybody’ does. You won’t.”

His bedroom door slammed at least once every day. Laura began to wonder if he was reaching early puberty, although she hadn’t seen any other signs.

Her sister just grinned when she complained and said, “He’s spoiled you because he’s been such an easy kid.”

“Tell me at least he’s being polite at your house,” she’d begged.

Jenn had given her a quick hug. “He is. He spent ages pitching to Benji.”

Who was now in fourth grade, and any day now was going to demand his mother call him Ben before she humiliated him in front of his classmates.

Laura at least could be reassured that Jake was being nice to his younger cousins. Wrinkling her nose, she thought, Oh, good. It’s just me he’s mad at.

Saturday morning, a week after the gun show episode, Jake had gone back to his room after breakfast. Laura, grateful to be off for the day, was loading the dishwasher when her phone rang.

The number was her sister’s, which was a surprise since they hadn’t made plans for the weekend. She dried her hands and answered. “Hey. I don’t suppose you’ve decided you’re dying to scrape paint off my deck.”

“Not a chance.” Her sister hesitated. “Laura, Benji just told me something kind of worrisome I thought you should know. Um, are you alone?”

As far as she knew, Jake was still in his room. Nonetheless, she stepped outside, sliding the door closed behind her. It wasn’t raining, but the day was cooler than it had been all week and hinted that drizzle, at least, was on its way.

“Now I am,” she said. “What did Benji say?”

“Did you know Tino and his wife moved last year? Laura, their kids go to Faubion, too.”

Goose bumps of alarm rose on Laura’s arms. Faubion, kindergarten through eighth grade, was Jake’s school. And...Tino’s son was a year older than Jake, which would make him seventh grade, and his next oldest, a daughter...fifth, she thought. Then Tino’s kids stair-stepped down from there. They were a good Catholic family, and had already had three kids with Renata pregnant again the last time Laura saw them. They’d likely added a couple more since then.

“Why didn’t Jake say anything?”

“It gets worse,” her sister warned. “According to Benji, Tino’s kids have been bad-mouthing Jake. Everyone knows about the shooting now.”

“Oh, God.”

“He said kids are whispering about him. He’s seen Jake alone at recess shooting baskets instead of hanging out with friends.”

“And he didn’t say a word to me,” she said, stunned.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for telling me.” So much rage bubbled in her chest, she couldn’t believe how calm she sounded. “I...needed to know.”

“I thought so. Are you going to talk to him?”

“Yes. And then I’m going to talk to Tino.”

“Laura? That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“That son of a bitch,” she bit off, and ended the call with a single stab of her finger.

* * *

TOTALLY FREAKED, JAKE stared at the front door that Mom had slammed so hard, he thought it was still quivering.

Then, with a cry of fear, he leaped forward and wrenched the door open, racing after her.

He was too late. She was already backing down the driveway, looking over her shoulder. Even as he ran across the lawn, she reached the street and started forward without seeing him. Standing still on the sidewalk, breathing hard, he heard a squeal as she turned the corner a block and a half down. Mom never speeded, but she had to be.

What if something really bad happened? It would be his fault. Because of what happened back then. Everything had been his fault: Marco and Dad, and Mom sad for so long.

And now things might get really bad again.

He could call Aunt Jennifer. She might chase after Mom and...he didn’t know. Stop her from talking to Uncle Tino?

But he’d heard the end of the phone call. Aunt Jennifer already knew what Mom was going to do. It didn’t even sound as if she’d tried to talk Mom out of going. Jake pictured her, smaller, skinnier than Mom, nice but...well, nice. Too nice to stop Mom.

What do I do?

He didn’t even know exactly where Uncle Tino lived. After finding out his cousins had started at his school, he’d looked in the phone book, but there was no Tino Vennetti there at all, not even at an old address.

As he ran back across the yard and into the house, his heart pounded so hard it felt as if it was going to burst like a water balloon when you dropped it.

And then his eyes widened. Detective Winter could stop her if he wanted. He’d make sure Uncle Tino didn’t hurt her.

And Jake had the card with his phone number hidden under the base of his desk lamp so Mom wouldn’t find it and take it.

He was in such a hurry to grab the card, the lamp fell over and the bulb shattered, but he didn’t care.

* * *

SATURDAY MORNING, ETHAN was back to canvas neighbors of the Finkels he hadn’t yet been able to talk to when his cell phone rang. He took it from his belt and felt a jolt when he saw who was calling. He’d looked up Laura and Jake Vennetti’s number last weekend and added it to his contacts list.

“Winter,” he said, stopping halfway up the walkway to a handsome Victorian across the street and two doors down from the Finkels, whose house still had a blackened corner.

“Detective?” It was the boy, and his voice was high and scared. “Mom found out something, and...and I’m scared of what she’s going to do.”

That didn’t sound good.

“What did she find out?” he asked, taking on the tone he used to soothe distraught witnesses.

“It’s... See, we moved, after—you know, Dad died.” His voice shook. “But a while back my uncle Tino moved near us, and his kids go to my school now. They’ve been, like, telling everyone about me.”

Oh, hell.

“Only I didn’t tell Mom, but my cousin Benji ratted to his mom, who told mine.”

He had to untangle that. “His mom is...your mother’s sister?”

“Yes!” This was a wail. “Mom is really mad. She just, like, roared out of here. She’s going to my uncle Tino’s, and...and I don’t know what’s going to happen!”

“Okay.” Ethan had already leaped into his SUV and was calling up an address for Tino Vennetti. “I don’t think anything that bad would happen. Your mom may yell, but it sounds like your uncle Tino deserves to be yelled at.”

“Yes, but—” The boy gulped. “He punched Dad once. Dad fell down, and he was bleeding and he had a couple of broken teeth and...”

“Fortunately, I’m not that far away. I might even beat your mom there, if she just left.”

“You’ll go over there?” Jake’s relief was vast and would have been heartwarming if Ethan hadn’t been pretty sure Laura wasn’t going to welcome his intervention.

“I’m on my way. Don’t worry.”

He pushed the speed limits a little, but hadn’t lied; the Finkels lived in the Woodlawn neighborhood, which bordered the funkier, slightly less expensive Concordia where, apparently, two sets of Vennettis now lived.

Laura had already jumped out of her car and reached the sidewalk when he rolled up right behind her in front of the house on Northeast 28th. Her head swung around and she stared at him in astonishment that transmuted into fury as he got out.

“What are you doing here?”

“Jake called me. He was worried.”

“Worried about what?” she snapped. “That I might hurt his uncle Tino’s feelings?”

“I think he’s more worried about you,” Ethan said gently. “He remembers Uncle Tino slugging his dad. He said there was a lot of blood.”

“Oh. Oh!” She pressed her fingers to her lips and then turned her back on him.

Ethan put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded. “I’m not here to stop you. I understand why you’re mad. He...told me enough.”

That lit a fuse. Laura wheeled around, forcing him to drop his hands from her. “Did he tell you his dear little cousin Gianna said her dad ordered them to make sure everyone knows what happened? To say that he’s dangerous and shouldn’t be allowed at school?”

“No.” His teeth clamped together. It took an effort to relax his jaw. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“What would you do if this was your son?”

“Probably the same thing you want to do,” he admitted.

Her eyes widened. “Do you have a son?”

“No. No kids. No wife.” Not anymore.

Her eyes shot sparks. “Then you don’t know.”

He glanced sidelong. Curtains had been twitching in the front window since he got there.

“What I do know,” he said quietly, “is that if you go in there screaming, all you’ll accomplish is to ramp up the hostilities. Your brother-in-law will feel justified in spreading the word that you and Jake both are unbalanced.”

If her glare had been a blowtorch, he’d be charbroiled by now.

“Then what am I supposed to do? Remind him timidly that Jake has feelings, too?”

His smile had her staring. “No.” He let the smile go. “I’d shame him.”

She didn’t so much as blink. He absolutely couldn’t tell what she was thinking. But then her fingers uncurled from fists and she gave a sharp nod.

“You’re right.” She turned and marched up the narrow concrete walkway.

Ethan was right behind her. He was damned if there’d be any bloodshed today.

Before they reached the porch steps, the front door of the nicely cared for house of 1930s or ’40s vintage opened and a man stepped out. He advanced to the front of the porch, giving him the high ground. A dark-haired woman hovered just inside the house. Ethan kept his attention on the man, who was unmistakably Matt Vennetti’s brother—and Jake Vennetti’s uncle.

After barely flicking a glance at Ethan, he stared insolently at Laura. “What do you want?”

“Hello, Tino,” she said with remarkable restraint. “Renata.”

The woman faded back.

“I’m here to ask you why you’re going out of your way to hurt a child. A child who is related to you.”

His lip curled. “He murdered Marco.”

Ethan laid a hand on her lower back. He felt the quivering tension in her muscles, but he also would have sworn she had leaned back into his hand, just a little.

“He was five years old, Tino.” She raised her brow and again looked past him, where his wife was an indistinct shadow in the foyer. “Last I knew, you were expecting. Did you have a girl or a boy?”

There was a moment of silence. “A boy,” Tino said stiffly.

“Who would be...maybe six now?”

His jaw muscles knotted. He didn’t say anything.

“In kindergarten, I guess.”

Still nothing.

“Probably six months older now than Jake was when he thought it would be fun to show off his daddy’s gun to Marco. He wanted so much to grow up to be like Matt.”

For all that she kept her dignity, the grief in her voice and on her face was shattering.

“Can you tell me that your little boy hasn’t tried to get his hands on your tools, even when you told him he can’t touch them?”

The expression on Tino’s face shifted.

Ethan didn’t know what he did for a living, but her shaft had struck home, he could tell that much.

“You didn’t see Marco.” She shuddered, and then steadied herself. “After. I did. You didn’t hear Jake screaming. Do you know he didn’t quit screaming until we had him sedated? Do you know he wouldn’t talk for weeks? That he had nightmares for years?” Her voice had fallen to a whisper. She stared her brother-in-law in the eye, and then shook her head. “But no.” She resumed a normal conversational tone, making sure the woman inside heard her, too. “Because you never again set eyes on him, did you? Nobody from your family did. None of you cared at all about the five-year-old boy, your own flesh and blood, who will be haunted for the rest of his life by the terrible thing that happened. A tragedy that was not his fault. Because he was playing. Until that unspeakable moment, all he knew about guns was what he’d seen on cartoons and that his daddy, the hero, carried one. Now, his own cousins are making his life so much harder.” She shook her head and finished quietly, “You should be ashamed of yourself, Tino.”

Then she turned, drawing Ethan with her, and started back to her car.

“Laura.”

She paused. Ethan looked over his shoulder.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Tino said hoarsely. “Mama—” Then his throat worked and he bowed his head.

Laura resumed walking. When they reached her car, Ethan stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“Are you okay to drive?”

He felt her fine tremors, but she was steadier than he’d expected.

“Yes.” She hesitated. “I think so.” Her eyes met his. “Thanks to you. I...I might just sit here for a minute.”

“Okay.” He let one corner of his mouth tilt up. “You did good.”

She almost smiled, but not quite. “Thank you. Um...have they gone back inside? I can’t let myself look.”

“Yeah. I think he’s crying.”

“Good,” she said fiercely.

He smiled and hugged her, letting her go before she could protest. “I’ll follow you home.”

She took in the badge at his waist. “Aren’t you working?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She took a swipe at them and hurried around her car. When she opened the door, he bent to see that she’d left her keys in the ignition and her purse on the front seat. From what Jake had said about the way she stormed out, it was probably a surprise she’d remembered to bring her purse.

“See you there,” he said with a nod.

Over the roof of the car, their eyes met, and his heart skipped a couple of beats at what he saw in hers before color washed over her cheeks and she climbed in and slammed her door.

Feeling uncomfortably light-headed, Ethan got into his Yukon, where he sat looking at the back of her head and wondering what in the hell had just happened.

CHAPTER THREE

LAURA PARKED IN front of the house instead of driving into the garage and waited for Ethan to get out of the big SUV that had ridden her bumper all the way. She was embarrassed to feel so grateful for his insistence on accompanying her home. She knew that, at the least, he’d listen patiently and that he was nonjudgmental.

She saw him putting his phone back on his belt as he walked toward her, which meant he’d taken a call during the drive. Her eyebrows pulled into a frown.

“If you have to go, it’s okay.”

He shook his head, wiping his face clean of whatever irritation or frustration he felt. “It was just an update.”

“Oh.”

“I assume Jake’s home?”

She made a face as she led the way onto the porch. “Unless he’s decided to run away.”

He chuckled. “I kind of doubt that.”

“I don’t know.” At least she’d remembered to lock the front door as she flew out. Inserting her key, she said over her shoulder, “He’s been a real pain in the butt this week. It’s like having a rabid teenager in the house.”

Her reward was a deep laugh, so close behind it stirred the hair on her nape and made her shiver. “Sadly,” he murmured, “my mother would know exactly what you’re talking about.”

Despite everything, Laura found herself smiling, too, as she opened the door. “She would, huh?”

Jake was waiting in the hall leading from the bedrooms, his mouth dropping open at the sight of her. “You’re not mad anymore.”

“I’m still mad. I’m just...” She tried to decide. “I did what I could. Monday I’ll go talk to your principal.”

“I thought Uncle Tino would hit you.”

Laura crossed the room to gather him into her arms and press her cheek to his. “He wouldn’t have done that. In his world view, it wouldn’t have been manly.”

“Really?” Her son’s voice squeaked.

“Really.” She smiled and kissed his forehead. “I don’t know if I accomplished anything, but I didn’t blow it as bad as I would have if Ethan hadn’t showed up to talk some sense into me. So thank you for calling him.”

His expression was so incredulous, it made her laugh.

“I thought you’d be mad.”

“You mean, even madder.” She grimaced. “I was. Until he talked sense into me. Now I’m not.”

He exhaled a huge breath. “Oh.” Then a frown crinkled his forehead. “What did he say? Uncle Tino?”

“Actually...not much. Mostly, I didn’t give him a chance to talk.”

“He said he was sorry,” Ethan said quietly, and she turned.

“You were looking at him. Do you think he meant it?”

“Yeah. He was crying, Laura.”

“Crying?” He’d said that, but it hadn’t sunk in. Now, she tried to picture the oldest Vennetti son breaking down. “Tino?”

Jake looked stunned. “Wow.”

Laura gave herself a shake. “Have a seat, Detective.”

His eyes smiled at her. “Ethan.”

“Ethan.” Why had she even bothered to try to distance him? “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I’d love a cup of coffee.”

“Sugar? Creamer?”

“Black.”

He chose the same place on the sofa to sit as the last time he’d been here. When she went to the kitchen, she heard his and Jake’s voices. Fortunately, she had some decent coffee on hand and returned reasonably quickly with two mugs.

Ethan took his with thanks. “I usually bring a travel mug with me. Kind of hurried out the door this morning.”

“Jake said you investigate assaults and...bias crimes? Does that mean specifically anti-gay or whatever?”

“That’s right. Did you know Oregon has a hate crimes law? It makes the penalty harsher for any given crime than it would be for one that wasn’t motivated by dislike of someone’s race, color, religion or sexual orientation.”

She frowned. “There was something on KGW news about a fire and a swastika spray painted on the driveway.”

He winced. “That one’s mine. I’m...getting a lot of pressure on it. Do you know how many Portland residents have last names that sound Jewish or that some idiot could interpret as Jewish when really they’re Polish or Russian or who knows what? City hall is getting a barrage of panicky phone calls, which means the police department brass are, which means...”

Understanding dawned. “You are.” No wonder he’d had that expression on his face a minute ago.

“What’s a swastika?” Jake asked, predictably. Normally he’d have watched the news with her, but he’d been sulking in his room.

Ethan explained, his tone grim. “The home you saw on the news is the fourth instance of vandalism within two weeks that included the spray painted swastika. First place it was painted was on the garage door, second house, on the front window, third, on the lawn. Those earlier ones were mostly garden-variety vandalism. Eggs, rocks thrown through windows, that kind of thing.”

Mostly. She wondered about that, but didn’t want to ask with Jake here. She thought Ethan would have said otherwise.

“Vandalism doesn’t sound significant enough to justify all the anxiety, but the fire is a significant escalation,” he continued. “We’re afraid someone is going to be hurt soon. There’s always the possibility a home owner with a gun will use it, too.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Jake said. “I mean, that’s why people want guns. So they can protect themselves.”

Good? Laura thought in shock. He knew how vehemently she opposed the whole idea, and still—

“It is,” Ethan agreed, raising her ire, but went on before she could jump in. “The problem is, your average person hasn’t practiced enough to be able to use their weapon effectively. They get scared and are more likely to freeze up than they are to shoot the right person at the right time. A dad panics, shoots and kills his teenage son who was sneaking into the house late at night. Or it’s a burglar, Dad points the gun, but the burglar wrestles it away from him. And here’s the bigger question...”

Laura was as mesmerized as Jake. Ethan wasn’t saying what she’d expected from him. And, thank God, he’d been tactful enough not to include in his little litany, Kids get their hands on their parents’ guns and tragic accidents happen.

“We have the death penalty in this state.” He leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, and looked and sounded even grimmer. “Someone has to have been convicted of aggravated murder to receive death as a sentence. So, if we as a society agreed that’s the only crime that we can justify putting someone to death for committing, is it all right for a home owner to shoot and kill someone breaking into his house?”

“But...it’s self-defense, isn’t it?”

Laura was glad to hear that Jake sounded unsure.

“It’s usually ruled to be. And sometimes it is. A woman is certainly entitled to protect herself from a man who intends to rape her, for example. But the average burglar doesn’t intend to hurt anyone. He’s sneaking in, hoping to grab some hot electronics, maybe some jewelry, and sneak back out without anyone hearing him. If the home owner were to yell that he’d called 911, the guy would bolt. These idiots who target people with a Jewish last name were committing only vandalism until this last time, when they set a fire, too. Their form of vandalism was ugly and indefensible, don’t get me wrong. But a capital crime? Not in my view.”

“So...if you were, like, staking out a house and they showed up and started, you know, painting the swastika and throwing rocks and maybe setting a fire, you wouldn’t pull your gun?” Jake asked in disbelief.

Ethan smiled faintly. “I would, because it would give me the upper hand. I’d be less likely to lose control of the situation. I would use the weapon as a threat to achieve an outcome that didn’t include violence.”

“You mean, they’d put their hands up and do what you tell them. Like that.”

His smile widened and he bent his head. “Just like that.” But the smile was gone when he went on. “The difference between me and the average home owner is that I put in many, many hours at the range practicing. I know when and why I should actually pull the trigger. In that situation, with the vandals, I’d be prepared to defend myself, but otherwise I wouldn’t shoot anyone.”

“You’d let them get away?”

“I’d do my best to catch them.” He flashed a startlingly boyish grin. “I also work out to stay in shape and make sure I’m fast. I can outrun most people.”

Laura bet he could. He’d have a longer stride than most people, for one thing, and none of the clumsiness common to many large men.

“But no, I wouldn’t shoot someone in the back to keep him from getting away. Vandalism isn’t a death penalty crime, even when it’s also a hate crime. Arson isn’t a death penalty crime unless it’s done to commit murder. Police officers rarely shoot except when they’re being attacked or to keep someone else from being badly injured or killed.”

“I never thought about that,” Jake said. “Mom always says—” He sneaked a look at her.

She tilted her head, wanting to find out which, if any, of her oft-repeated pearls of wisdom had actually stuck in his head. “What do I always say?”

“That having a gun in the house is more dangerous than not having one.” He flushed. “’Cuz things can happen. You know.”

Ethan held her son’s gaze. “I do know what happened, Jake. I’ve seen other tragedies like it. And let me say here that some law enforcement officers don’t agree with me. And I’m not opposed to safe gun ownership. People who hunt, for example, who follow the rules and lock their weapons up when they’re not carrying them. Target shooting can be fun. There’s nothing wrong with it. Same caveats.”

He had to explain what a caveat was.

“Dad always said he’d take me to the range when I got bigger.” Jake sounded wistful. “You remember, Mom?”

She remembered. Even then, she had hated the very idea, but she’d never said so. Certainly not to Jake, but not even to Matt. “I do,” she said.

“Did you learn to shoot when you were a kid?” Jake asked, earnestly pursuing...what? Justification for him to learn to handle a gun?

“Actually, no. My dad wasn’t a hunter. He’s in law enforcement, but he didn’t encourage me to take that path.”

“Is he still alive?” Laura asked.

Ethan glanced at her, his eyebrows climbing. “Sure. He’s a US marshal, but not for much longer. He’s taking retirement this coming year. Much to Mom’s relief, he switched to guard duty at the courthouse these past few years. His knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“Is he why you went into law enforcement?” she couldn’t resist asking.

His shoulders moved. “Partly. Of course there was always an element of glamour to it in my mind, like what Jake’s talking about. But I had a lot of other interests. I didn’t switch my major to criminology until I was a junior, and I had to add an extra semester to make up for lost time.”

She wanted to ask why he’d changed his mind midstream, but couldn’t help noticing how careful he’d been not to say. And really, he undoubtedly had better things to do today than exchange life stories with her.

He took a long swallow of coffee and set the mug down. “I’ve pontificated long enough. A piece of advice, though, Jake.”

Her son gazed eagerly at him.

“Or maybe I should start by asking how you’ve handled the talk about you.”

He hunched his shoulders, clearly unhappy to have the spotlight back on his own troubles. Turtle retreating into his shell. “Sometimes I say you don’t know what you’re talking about. Mostly I just, like, walk away.”

“In other words, you’re hoping if you ignore the whispers, they’ll go away.”

He jerked his shoulders. “I guess.”

“Ignoring things hardly ever makes them go away, you know.”

If she’d said that, Jake would have gotten sullen. But because it was Ethan instead, he screwed up his face. “I sort of know that.”

“Well, here’s what I’d tell them instead. ‘Something really bad did happen, but I was only five. It was an accident. I never meant to hurt anybody. Five-year-olds don’t understand much. I’d give anything for it not to have happened, but I can’t go back.’”

Laura watched Jake’s lips move as he silently repeated every word. Hero worship being born, she thought ruefully. And...she couldn’t even be sorry. Ethan had been sympathetic without getting maudlin, practical and philosophically, well, not that different from where she stood.

Disturbed by the tenor of her thoughts, she reminded herself that he did carry a gun, and was fully prepared to use it at any time.

Ethan glanced down at his phone, and she realized it must have vibrated. He rose to his feet and said, “I do need to go now. Laura, will you walk me out?”

She nodded.

Neither of them said anything until they’d reached the sidewalk by his SUV.

“Maybe I should move again,” Laura said suddenly. “Tino’s two aren’t going to rush around school on Monday telling everyone Dad says he was wrong, that Marco’s death wasn’t Jake’s fault.”

“Probably not. Kids don’t want to admit they were wrong.” His forehead creased. “What are his kids’ names?”

“Names?” She blinked. “His oldest is Niccolo, although I think he goes by Nick. And the girl is Gianna. Then they had another girl...Maddalena, I think. She’d be...eight. Then the boy in kindergarten and, heck, probably at least one more if not two.”

“Does Jake lengthen?”

“You mean, is it Italian? No. His full name is Jacob. Matt’s parents were not happy. He was Matteo, you know. They blamed me, but it was all him. I’d have been fine with Rico or Roberto or something like that, but he refused. He kept saying, ‘Mama doesn’t want to admit it, but we’re American now.’”

“Huh.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I take it that Mama Vennetti did not approve of her son marrying a woman who isn’t Italian?”

“Mama did not, and she never tried to like me.” At first Laura had been hurt, then mad. She’d become a damn fine Italian cook, she’d consented to raise their children in the Catholic Church even though she herself didn’t take the sacraments, but she wasn’t good enough and never would be. She wasn’t a woman who would hover in the background, as Renata had done today. The irony was that Mama was a domineering woman who wouldn’t hang back while her husband made decisions, either. Truthfully, what Mama didn’t want was another woman in the family who would challenge her.

Ethan studied her thoughtfully. “So the setup was already in place after the shooting.”

“For Mama to reject me? Absolutely. Matt...” She had to swallow and it was a struggle to go on. “That, I never would have expected—”

She wondered if being cut off by his family had devastated her husband more than her fury and inability to forgive him. Sometimes she almost hoped so, as if that would reduce the weight of her own sins.

“Hey.” Given how hard Ethan Winter’s face could be with its stark angles and planes, he had a way of looking remarkably gentle. Even...tender. “I didn’t mean to depress you even more.”

“What’s happening with Jake tears off scabs,” she said honestly. “How can it not?”

He didn’t say anything, his eyes intent on her.

“I think you’re right,” she said in a rush. “About the gun safety class. Can you suggest someplace I can sign him up?”

She felt his subtle relaxation. “Yeah. In fact, I sometimes teach a session. Let me see what’s coming up and call you, all right?”

Laura nodded. “And...thank you. For everything you said in there.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

His smiles made her feel and think things that weren’t realistic. She looked away. “What can you do about the vandals? It is scary. I work for Lehman Fine Furnishings. The family that owns it is Jewish.”

“What do you do there?” he asked.

“I manage the store. Uri Lehman started the store and hired me. He had a stroke two years ago. Neither of his kids was interested enough in the business to want to run it. So I got promoted.”

“My ex-wife dragged me in there one time. Steep prices.”

“Top quality,” Laura countered.

His grin was devastating, his eyes warm. “I’ll take your word for it. A cop’s salary does not run to an eight-thousand-dollar sofa.”

She laughed. “You didn’t see any eight-thousand-dollar sofas in my house, either. Even with an employee discount, it’s not happening.”

They smiled at each other for a moment that stretched, before he sobered.

“I’m heading out to keep canvasing neighbors. I might catch people home we haven’t been able to talk to yet.”

“Wouldn’t they have come forward if they saw anything?”

“People don’t always. Maybe they think what they saw wasn’t significant. Or they don’t read the newspaper or watch the local news and aren’t aware the vandalism at the Finkels’ wasn’t an isolated incident. So we keep trying.” His lips twisted. “Alternative is to wait until these punks strike again. The mayor doesn’t like the idea of telling callers that the police don’t have any leads to pursue and are having to wait until another attack occurs.”

“Which is really what you’re doing.”

“Afraid so.” His grunt might have been intended to be a laugh. “On that note...”

“Yes.” She stepped back, unsure how she’d come to be standing so close to him. “Good luck.”

Something moved in his eyes, but then he said only, “I’ll call,” and went around to get in behind the wheel.

Laura stood where she was and watched him drive away.

* * *

EVEN THOUGH HE had things he ought to be doing instead, once Ethan was parked in front of the Finkels’ house again, he made a call to a gun range that offered youth hunter safety classes.

He waited on hold for barely a minute for Ken Rice, the owner. When Ethan explained, Ken said, “We have one scheduled for Saturday, but it’s booked. So are the next three. We have a waiting list, Ethan.”

“If you have range time for an add-on class but no instructor, I’ll volunteer as long as I can get this kid in.”

There was a moment of silence. “And here I saw you at the press conference. You’re not tied up?”

He gave a short laugh. “I’m always tied up. But this kid...” He hesitated, but he trusted Ken. “His dad left a gun out and he shot and killed another kid when he was only five years old. He’s eleven now, and getting too interested in guns.”

“A lit fuse.”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”

He did, half an hour later. The classes at this range were usually eight hours and scheduled to take place in two sessions, but the only way he could see to get it in was to break it up into four parts. “We can do four consecutive Tuesday evenings, or maybe Sunday afternoons.”

“Let’s go for the evenings, if you think you’ll get enough sign-ups.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt of that,” Ken said drily.

“Okay.” He hesitated. “First on the list is Jake Vennetti.”

“The cop’s son.”

“Yeah. You remember?”

“Hard to forget.”

“Thanks, Ken. I appreciate this.”

“I appreciate you volunteering. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have teaching here.” He chuckled. “Even if you don’t hunt.”

Ethan decided he could wait to talk to Laura, and got out to start door-belling.

Nobody had seen a damn thing. Or they weren’t home today, just like they hadn’t been home the past three times he rang their doorbell.

Not until he took a break for lunch did he call her.

She was breathing hard when she answered.

“Did I catch you on the run?” he asked.

“No, I’m scraping paint from my back deck. It’s an awful job. I was going to just paint it, but it was lumpy with a bunch of previous coats, so... One of the joys of home ownership.”

“I live in an apartment.” He didn’t even know why he said that. He and Erin had bought a house but split up barely a year later and sold the place.

Laura huffed. “Right this minute, that’s sounding good.”

She made him smile more than he could remember in a while, a surprise considering how mad and/or upset she’d been during most of their interactions.

“The next youth hunter safety class with any openings starts Tuesday night. Two hours a session, four consecutive Tuesdays. I hope Jake doesn’t have a conflict.”

“No, but...hunter?”

“That’s what’s taught to kids his age. We get all the basics in.” He hesitated. “With your permission, I thought I’d spend a little time at the range with him myself, working with handguns.”

“You’re not teaching the class?” She sounded worried.

“I am.” No way he was admitting he’d set the whole thing up for Jake’s sake.

She expelled an “Oh!” that sounded relieved. “What time on Tuesday and where?”

He told her, and she promised to call to officially sign Jake up and pay the minimal fee.

“Can I offer you dinner Tuesday before the class?”

He wasn’t fooled by how elaborately casual she sounded. Some anxiety vibrated in her voice. He couldn’t help wondering. Did she want reassurance about Jake, about letting him handle guns? Or...was she asking because she wanted to see him, and feared it had never crossed his mind to make their relationship personal?

Man, he hoped the answer was number two.

“I’d appreciate that,” he said. “That way Jake can go with me, unless you want to come along and watch.”

The tiny pool of silence didn’t surprise him.

“He’d probably rather I didn’t come.”

“He’s a boy,” Ethan said gently.

“I didn’t even have a brother. Raising a boy is...challenging.”

“If it’s any consolation, my mother says my sister gave her more heartburn than I did.”

“That’s not what you said earlier.” Her voice was teasing.

“Oh, I was a pain in the ass, but Carla was a mass of screaming hormones for at least two years. Even I was scared of her.”

Laura was giggling when they signed off, Ethan smiling in satisfaction.

* * *

“NUMBER ONE IS the golden rule of gun safety. Anyone already know this?”

A girl who looked to be fourteen or fifteen raised her hand. “Never point your gun at anything you don’t want to shoot.”

Ethan nodded. “That’s one way to put it. When you’re handling a gun of any kind, point it in a safe direction. Not at a person, not at your dog, not at your mom’s favorite lamp.” He looked from one face to the next. “Safest place is at the ground, but not too close to your feet.” Holding the unloaded .22 rifle, he demonstrated.

The kids were rapt, even though safety rules were pretty basic. Never touch the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Keep the gun unloaded until you’re ready to use it. Check to see if the gun is loaded every time you pick it up. Don’t rely on a gun’s safety catch. Never try to take a gun away from someone by grabbing the barrel.

Never fool around with a gun. No Cowboys and Indians, Cops and Robbers games.

Ethan didn’t look directly at Jake when he said that one, but with his peripheral vision he saw him duck his head.

Ethan talked about some other dangers and rules, emphasizing that anyone handling a gun had to be aware not only of their target, but of what was surrounding that target and behind it.

“You might be accurate on the range, but shooting a deer on the run or a duck taking off from a pond is another story. You’re tracking the movement, getting excited. What if there’s another hunter on the other side of the pond? What if you’re shooting tin cans off the fence at your uncle’s farm and you didn’t notice a horse wandering in the pasture behind that fence?”

He had them do some role-playing, let them handle several rifles he’d borrowed from Ken for the purpose, after elaborately checking to be sure they were unloaded even though he had, of course, done so before starting the class.

This first class, they talked about gun care, too. About trigger locks and gun safes. He paired them up and had each pair clean a .22 rifle, in part to help them understand what each part did, but also because a clean gun was a safer gun.

They all worked earnestly, although he could tell that, for about half the kids, he wasn’t saying anything they didn’t know and that they were already pretty comfortable handling the .22s. He appreciated their parents putting them through a class anyway.

He promised to give them a little time the next week on the range, and told them he was trying to book an extra hour at an outdoor range that would give them a different experience.

When the two hours were up, he spent another twenty minutes talking to parents. While he waited, Jake stared into the glass-fronted cabinets at handguns for sale.

Ken had hung around tonight, and he talked easily to Jake while Ethan was busy.

“See you next week,” he said when they left, as if he hadn’t noticed anything amiss about Jake’s interest.

On the drive home, Jake grumbled about not having been able to shoot tonight, but he also asked some eager questions and talked about the other kids in the class.

“I didn’t think there’d be girls. And one of them, Amber, says she already knows all this stuff. Her dad takes her target shooting all the time, and she says her mom hunts, too.”

“There are quite a few women who compete all the way up to an international level in target shooting, too.”

“Girls don’t usually talk about guns.”

Ethan laughed. “Better not say girls in quite that tone around your mom. And if you lived in a more rural part of the state, I think you’d find more girls interested. For men and women, hunting is a less common interest among an urban population.”

“How come you don’t hunt?”

“I take carrying a gun too seriously to want to do it for fun. Plus, I like animals. I don’t want to shoot one.”

“But you eat meat.”

Ethan grimaced. “You’ve got me there. I’m probably a hypocrite. But the truth is I don’t need to take a deer every year to keep meat in my freezer the way some folks do. If I’d grown up hunting, it might be different. As it is, I like to hike, I’ve done some mountain climbing, I love windsurfing, I play basketball, I run for exercise and do some weight lifting.” He glanced at Jake. “Do you play any sports?”

“I did Little League until this year. And I play basketball. Mom said I might be able to do some sport camps this summer. Did you play college ball?”

“I did. Portland State. If it’s okay with your mother, maybe this weekend we could find a hoop and play some one-on-one.” Maybe Laura would want to play, too, or come watch. Offer to feed him lunch, he thought hopefully.

“I couldn’t defend against you,” the boy said indignantly. “You’re really tall.”

Ethan laughed. “No, but we can play Horse, practice our free throws and layups. Just have fun.”

“Yeah! That would be cool.”

“Good.” He pulled up in front of Jake’s house. “I’ll call. And see you next week, if not before. Ask your mom about this weekend, but be warned that sometimes I end up having to work.”

“You don’t want to come in?” Jake sounded disappointed.

“I’d better not,” Ethan said, even though there was nothing he’d have liked better. But...she’d had him to dinner. She’d blushed a couple of times. Once, their fingers had brushed when she passed him a dish, and she’d stopped talking midsentence and gone very still, a hint of yearning in her eyes.

Or so he’d convinced himself.

No, he wasn’t going to push it.

And...he’d better think long and hard before he spent any more time with Laura Vennetti anyway. He had a hard time picturing her having casual affairs. Anything else—they had some major strikes against them. It really might be smarter not to start anything.

But he waited until Jake let himself in the front door, only then acknowledging how disappointed he was not to catch a glimpse of Laura.

And admitting how much he wanted to see her again.

CHAPTER FOUR

ETHAN WAITED JUST inside Laura Vennetti’s front door for Jake to change into basketball shoes. She hovered politely, giving him a chance to scan her dirty, ripped jeans and ragged flannel shirt—none of which disguised the lush curves he’d like to linger on but didn’t.

“I’m feeling guilty,” he said after a brief silence that had the potential to become awkward. “I could help scrape the deck instead of taking your helper away from you.”

She sneaked a look over her shoulder toward the hall, and still lowered her voice. “Take him away. Please,” she begged, surprising a laugh from him. “He whines more than he works.”

Still grinning, he said, “Is this where I admit I don’t blame him? It sounds like a crappy job.”

Her freckled nose crinkled. “It is a crappy job, but I think I can mostly finish today. Especially if I’m left alone to do it in peace. Painting is bound to be more fun.”

He looked past her to see Jake approaching. “You set?” Ethan asked.

“Yeah.” The boy sounded eager. “You’re not coming, are you, Mom?”

“And now I feel so welcome.” She stuck out her tongue at him. “No, I’m not. But I was about to invite Ethan to stay to lunch when you get back if he’d like.”

“I’d love to stay,” he said without hesitation.

Her smile was more uncomplicated than any he’d yet seen. It lit her face. And, yes, he’d been right; her eyes were a brighter blue when she was happy.

“Good,” she said, bumping her shoulder against her son’s as he passed. “Have fun.”

Talking idly about nothing in particular, they drove to Jake’s school, which had the closest available outdoor courts. Despite the lack of rain, the sky was sullen enough they could have one hoop to themselves, Ethan was glad to find.

It felt good to palm a basketball, to feel the flow of muscles as he let loose of some long jump shots. He played often enough he hadn’t lost the instincts, the reflexes. Funny, though, how long it had been since he’d played on an asphalt schoolyard court like this.

Ethan shot from way outside and watched as the ball dropped through the rim and Jake snagged it. Hit by memories, he said, “Man, I spent hours at a school near my house when I was your age, doing nothing but shooting. Half the time there wasn’t any net. I was sure I’d be an NBA star.”

“How come you’re not?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know if I’d have made it or not, and I doubt I’d have been a star no matter what. But by then I’d changed my mind. I loved playing college ball, though.”

“You’re tall enough to play pro, aren’t you?”

“Probably. I’m almost six foot four. I played forward for Portland State, but I might have been able to move to guard.” He shrugged. “There are a lot of good college ball players, though, who had the same dreams I did. It’s probably just as well I’d moved on. If nothing else, pro ball isn’t a career that lasts long. One knee injury can end it just like that.” He snapped his fingers, and then beckoned for the ball, which Jake bounced to him. “Can you shoot from the free throw line yet?”

The boy grimaced. “Kind of.”

They worked on it for a while, Ethan offering a few suggestions and Jake noticeably improving, before Ethan asked how his week had gone at school. “You try standing up for yourself?” he asked.

Jake gave a stiff shrug. “I said what you suggested to a couple of people. I don’t know. Mostly people are still looking funny at me.”

“They’ll get over it.” Ethan stole the ball from him, dribbled a couple of times and did an effortless slam dunk. Aware of the openmouthed stare from a group of boys playing a short distance away, Ethan felt some amusement at himself. Showboating, were you? He tipped his head toward the boys. “That anyone you know?”

Jake didn’t look. “One is in my class. Another of those guys used to be a friend. Ron.”

Ethan made an acknowledging sound. “What d’ya say we dazzle ’em, then?”

“Yeah!”

They played hard, Jake’s layups getting smoother, his moves as he tried to steal the ball from Ethan sneakier. When they finally decided to quit, Ethan waited until they were walking past the other boys before he said easily, “Practice, and you’ll play varsity, no problem. You’re good for your age.”

Jake flushed with pleasure. “Thanks. I mean—that’d be cool, you know?”

Ethan tapped him lightly on the back. They were past being in earshot of the little shits who’d snubbed Jake. “Looks like you might get some height from your mom, too. I don’t think your dad was tall enough to seriously play basketball.”

“He played baseball in high school.” His forehead crinkled. “I think football, too, but mostly he was a really great first baseman.”

Hearing how uncertain but also defiant he sounded, Ethan had to wonder how well the boy remembered his father. Ethan’s own memories before age six or seven were pretty skimpy. Did Laura try to keep Matt’s memory alive for his son, or had too much anger gotten in the way?

“I played on a baseball team with your dad one year,” he commented as he buckled his seat belt and put the key in the ignition of his SUV. “You know, just for fun. Our team was made up of firefighters and police officers. You’re right, your dad was dynamite at first base. Hell of a hitter, too. I’d kind of forgotten.”

“I wish I’d seen,” Jake said sadly.

Counting back, Ethan said, “If you were born at all then, you’d have been only a baby. Your mom might have brought you to games.”

“You didn’t see her?”

“If I met her, I don’t remember.” He had trouble now imagining how he could ever have set eyes on Laura Vennetti and forgotten her, but he’d been married himself then and not looking. In fact, if he’d really noticed her, he would have made a point after that of not looking.

“I bet you were a good baseball player, too.”

“I wasn’t bad, but basketball was always my sport.” He flicked on his windshield wipers and said unnecessarily, “It’s starting to rain.”

“Mom won’t like that.”

Ethan grinned. “No, she won’t.”

When they let themselves into the house, she was just emerging from what he guessed was her bedroom down the hall. Her hair, loose now, gleamed, and she’d changed to clean jeans and a V-neck sweater snug-fitting enough to cause his body to stir.

“You quit before you got wet,” she said, seeming pleased to see them. “I didn’t even know the rain had started until I got out of the shower.”

“You finished with the deck?” Ethan asked.

“It’s as scraped as it’s going to get. Who knows when I’ll be able to paint now, though. The forecast isn’t very promising.”

“I noticed.” He and Jake both followed her to the kitchen.

She turned to see them looking expectant and laughed. “I cheated. I called to order a pizza. It should be here any minute. What do you want to drink?”

They had a brief skirmish, but Ethan insisted on paying for the pizza when it arrived, and Laura didn’t seem too disgruntled. Conversation flowed as they ate. Ethan nodded when told about the basketball camp Jake wanted to take that summer and repeated what he’d said at the school. Flushing with pleasure, Jake told her about how Ethan had dunked the ball.

“Like it was easy,” he marveled. “And he makes baskets from way out. I wish I could do that.”

“I couldn’t when I was your age, either.” Ethan reached for another slice of pizza. “You’re not tall enough yet and your hands aren’t big enough. Plus, it took a lot of practice.”

“The school is too far for me to go over there whenever I want,” Jake grumbled.

Ethan had had a thought about that, but figured it wasn’t something he should say to Laura in front of her kid. He’d wait.

Laura talked about her week at work, and he did the same. He’d made an arrest on an assault case he’d been pursuing for a while, and was working with the DA’s office now to make sure there were no holes in the case that might result in an acquittal.

“I do enjoy arresting someone who thinks he’s gotten away with something crummy,” he admitted when Jake asked. “It’s one of the pleasures of the job.”

Jake leaned forward, his expression almost as avid as when he’d looked at handguns. “What else do you especially like?”

It was obvious Laura was alarmed by the question. Ethan was amused to meet her hard stare, daring him to give the wrong answer.

“Hmm,” he said, giving himself a minute to think about how he would answer. It wasn’t a common question. Probably a good thing, given that the satisfaction and frustration, boredom and adrenaline became so entangled, picking them apart was no easy task. “I meet good people along with the bad,” he said at last. “I like helping people. Giving them justice even if I can’t put everything back the way it was before the crime was committed.” He smiled faintly. “Becoming a detective was my goal from the beginning because I enjoy puzzles. Putting all those pieces together until the picture is whole. That aha! moment can’t be beat.”

Jake looked appalled. “That’s the best part? Not...I don’t know...the way people look up to you?”

“No.” Ethan’s smile widened. “It’s true that in certain circumstances I need respect from people, even a little fear. But most day-to-day policing goes better if I can connect with people. Encourage openness.”

The boy sneaked a look at his mother that Ethan didn’t understand, then burst out, “Is that what Dad thought, too?”

“He seemed like a good cop to me, when we worked together.” Ethan kept his voice relaxed, friendly, instinctively trying to ratchet down any tension between Laura and Jake. “People liked Matt. He had a gift for talking people down from whatever cliff they’d climbed up on. He could calm an enraged guy or a distraught woman like no one else I ever knew. I told him he should think about training to become a negotiator. I don’t know if he considered that later.”

“If he did, he didn’t tell me,” Laura said. “But he was really good at cooling tempers. I’d kind of forgotten. I’ll bet family get-togethers have been way more tempestuous without him.”

Ethan heard the wryness in that. The family hadn’t had to do without their peacekeeper. They could have chosen to forgive his mistake, however terrible the result had been, to support him when he needed them as he never had before. Instead, they’d turned their backs, with yet more terrible results.

Jake seemed not to have heard the subtext. His face scrunched as he appeared to struggle to pull up memories of his father. “Mostly I remember Dad being fun.” His eyes focused on Ethan again. “Wrestling with me, laughing, helping me learn to throw the ball. Stuff like that. Oh!” He brightened. “And he had a motorcycle. Was it a Harley, Mom?” He saw her nod, but didn’t see her expression. “He’d take me on drives. Just slow, like around the block, but I thought it was the best.”

Laura’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I’m glad you remember,” she said softly. “I wasn’t sure you did.”

“I wish you’d kept the motorcycle,” Jake said discontentedly. “Then I could have had it someday.”

“We needed the money I got for it.” She gave a funny, broken laugh. “I have to admit, the idea of letting my teenage son head out on his Harley sends a chill down my spine, too. Maybe by the time you can afford to buy your own, I won’t be so worried about you riding it.”

“Didn’t you go for rides with Dad on it?”

“We did in the early days.” Having apparently conquered the tears, she smiled at him. “Before you were born. After that, well—” she laughed “—I’m a secret coward. I never enjoyed the open road the way your dad did.”

“Really?” he marveled. He turned to Ethan. “Do you have a motorcycle?”

“Nope. I was never that interested in anything with an engine.” Replete, Ethan pushed his plate away. “Now, windsurfing on the Columbia River, that’s a charge. I’ll take you this summer.” He frowned. “You can swim, can’t you?”

“Yeah!”

Ethan smiled at Laura. “Both of you.” He’d really like to see her in a bikini. Even a tight-fitting one-piece. Although nothing would be even better.

He never had had that heart-to-heart with his common sense over whether getting too involved with both Vennettis was smart. Reaching out a hand to the boy, that was one thing; he could even think of it as part of his job. He remembered Ken describing Jake as a lit fuse. The spark could still be doused.

He felt a spark low in his belly every time he looked at Laura, too, but this one was entirely personal. He hadn’t decided whether it would be better stamped out, too.

It’s not too late to back off, he told himself, but had a bad feeling he was lying to himself, something he tried not to do.

His unease was such that he made his excuses right after Laura closed the box on the two remaining slices of pizza and, when he declined to take the leftovers, stood to put them in the refrigerator.

“Would you clear up the rest?” she asked Jake, and walked Ethan to the door.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said, sounding more formal than she had since he first arrived.

“I like your son. I had fun, too. I don’t take time to do something like shoot baskets often enough.” He grinned. “And, just so you know, the slam dunk was meant to impress some boys Jake knows who were ignoring him.”

“Jerks,” she muttered.

“Yeah, I figured they deserved to see that he has cooler friends than they do.”

Her eyes sparkled and her laugh was a delighted ripple. “His friend isn’t so modest, though.”

Ethan shook his head. “Laura, Laura. You don’t understand preteen boys. Modesty is not a virtue they admire.”

That gained him another laugh. “Then thank you for the dunk, too.”

“Ah, listen. I had an idea,” he said. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Jake.”

Her smile faded.

“Nothing bad. I was just thinking I could install a hoop above your garage, if you’re okay with it. It would be healthier for him to be out shooting baskets than doing whatever he does in his room.”

Laura made a face. “Probably computer games.” She looked toward the garage. “Our driveway is flat.”

“Pretty much perfect.”

“If you mean that, I’ll go ahead and buy a...backboard. Isn’t that what they’re called?”

“Yep. I could make one if I had time, but I can’t promise right now.”

In the end, she agreed to let him pick one up since she knew nothing about them and his vehicle was better suited for hauling something that might come in a huge box than hers was. She insisted on paying for it, though.

He was starting to turn away when she touched his arm. “I...wanted to ask you something.”

Ethan tensed at the way she’d lowered her voice. “Sure.”

“Please be honest with me. Do you, um...” She visibly squared her shoulders. “Are you carrying a gun?”

He felt a spurt of anger that he knew wasn’t fair. For all she could tell, he might have a backup weapon; a lot of cops never got dressed without donning an ankle holster. He wasn’t one of them. Maybe someday he’d be sorry, but he didn’t think so.

“No,” he said tersely. “Did you think I’d come to lunch or dinner at your house carrying, after you told me how you felt about it?”

Those shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even asked. It’s just...”

He got over his pique. “Hey. I do understand, Laura. It’s a hot button for you, and for good reason. I respect that.”

Desperate eyes searched his. “Thank you. I hope it’s not uncomfortable for you. I mean, being unarmed.”

He couldn’t resist wrapping his hand around her upper arm and squeezing gently. “No. I’m not one of those guys who can’t go to the john without his gun. I carry a backup only on the job, and even then only when I’m involved in something that might call for it.” He managed a smile. “Didn’t figure the playground was one of those places.”

“I’m glad.”

Somehow as he’d turned back to face her they’d ended up so close, only a few inches separated their bodies. Their voices had gone quiet, too; intimate. Her gaze was suddenly shy, her cheeks flushed. Ethan couldn’t stop himself from bending to kiss her cheek, warm, soft and sweet-smelling. He heard her inhalation and went still for a moment. Man, he wanted to kiss her mouth, too, but he made himself straighten, let her go and back away.

“See you Tuesday.”

“Oh! You don’t have to pick him up, you know. I’d be glad to drive him.”

No dinner invitation, then. He still didn’t know if she was attracted to him, too, but thought she was. She’d have her own alarm system, though, and he had no doubt he triggered it.

“Why don’t you bring him,” he suggested, “and I’ll run him home afterward?”

“Thank you. If—”

He mock-glowered. “Don’t say, ‘If you mean it.’”

She almost laughed. “I promise.”

“All right.” Even as he was loping across her front yard to the curb, he lifted a hand to her.

Once again, she remained in the open doorway, watching as he drove away.

* * *

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, LAURA spread bills out on the desk as she calculated what she could afford to pay and when. Her sister had picked up Jake to go with them to the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, a perfect choice when rain was pitter-pattering down, so she had peace and quiet.

Her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but it was local, so she answered.

“Laura?” It was a woman’s voice. “This is Emily. Emiliana?”

Laura’s hand tightened on the phone. What was she supposed to say? Oh, how nice to hear from you after all these years?

“Matt’s sister?”

“I’d forgotten your voice,” Laura said coolly.

That opened a pool of silence. Finally Emily broke it. “Tino told us what you said to him. He’s ashamed he encouraged his kids to talk about what happened.”

“Is he? He should be ashamed. Him a grown-up, preying on a child. Did he mention that word has spread throughout the school? That Jake’s friends have quit calling? That he hears kids whispering ‘Murderer’ as he passes?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Does Mama know you’re calling? I’m sure she wouldn’t approve. Or did you sneak out so Guido doesn’t know, either? He never could stand up to her.”