Their time had run out and he’d been ahead when they stopped, but Miranda had a feeling her son had also won for real, having a man like Tad to look up to for a little while.
She had a feeling she’d won, too.
Chapter 10
He didn’t get a look at all the window latches Thursday night. When he’d excused himself to visit the bathroom, he’d planned to check the bedrooms, but he’d found both doors firmly shut and couldn’t risk getting caught inside the rooms.
He’d tried to get her to talk about the windows, noticing that the French door leading out the patio was sparkling, which only led to a conversation about cleaning windows and how she was good at dealing with the inside, but never got around to the outside. They’d only get dirty again next time it rained. He’d moved on to asking if she ever opened her windows to let the breeze in, and she’d said there was no need, since the place was small and she could open the front door, with the metal security screen locked, and get all the cool they needed.
So Friday, when he knew Miranda was at work and Ethan at school, he made a stop by the cottage to do a thorough check on the windows from the outside. To find out how hard it would be to break in. He brought along a squeegee, a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels as his cover, and washed the outsides of all her windows while he was at it. Which meant he’d have to tell her he’d done it, because she was bound to notice and get freaked out.
When he’d thought that Miranda’s ex was her only threat, and had been confident—if not 100 percent certain—that the man was deceased, he’d contented himself with watching out for her as her father had asked.
Now that he knew there was a family member who could pose a threat, he was buckling down on his procedures. He was not going to lose a woman or child in his care. He wasn’t going to let Ethan or Miranda get hurt, period.
And when he called her father for their regularly scheduled weekly chat later that afternoon, he was determined to get more information out of him.
“How’d it go last night?” Chief O’Connor asked as soon as he picked up.
“It went really well.” Tad stood out on his balcony, needing the ocean view to keep things in perspective. To get away from his own interests and out into the world where he could help save lives.
“Tell me about Jeffrey. Is he a good eater? I’m sure he’s smart, like his mama.” The man’s eagerness pulled at Tad, making him a bit sad for all of them. Jeffrey, whose name had been changed to Ethan, and who had no idea he’d ever been anyone else. Or that he had a wonderful grandfather. Miranda who’d lost the support of her family and friends. Chief O’Connor, with his unending well of unconditional love for his family which left him with such horrendous loneliness, and himself, too, because he’d never experience the depths of that kind of love again.
And then, with the next breath he took, reminded himself that he was alone by choice.
“She made his favorite dinner, so I don’t know if the way he cleaned his plate is typical of his usual habits or not. And yes, he’s a smart little guy. You’d be proud of him, Chief.” He could have said so much more. Was probably being paid to say more...
And reporting details of his time with Miranda and Ethan, taking things he learned about them during the time he spent with them, seemed duplicitous. Or worse.
“What’s his favorite dinner?”
See, that was one of those intimacies, those privileged pieces of information you got when you were invited into someone’s inner circle.
“Spaghetti.” Sort of.
“Baked spaghetti? In one of those long metal pans? Sauce and noodles mixed together with cheese?”
Tad half smiled as he leaned against the ceiling-high cement wall he shared with the vacant balcony next door. “Yeah,” he said. “Clearly you’ve had it before.”
“It was her favorite, too,” O’Connor said, his voice growing soft. He paused, as though restraining emotion, and added, “It was one of her mother’s specialties. She taught Dana how to make it, and other things, too, when we found out she was sick.”
Tad might not want family of his own, but he knew, in that moment, that he had to get this one back together. Somehow, someway, he had to help them.
“How old was she then?” He had a feeling the older man never talked about his own pain. He was always too busy tending to others.
“Ten.”
“And when her mother died?”
“Eleven.”
He’d been fourteen when his sister was murdered.
Chin tight, he straightened, hating that Miranda, who gave so much, who truly cared about others, had suffered so much. And had to handle it all alone.
He had to right this wrong.
“I’m concerned about this family member of Jeffrey’s father that you mentioned yesterday,” he said. “I’m uncomfortable not knowing more. I can’t do my job that way. I could have exposed her just by being here. She and Ethan could be sitting ducks...”