Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

Eve looked down at the finger painting. A castle-house, Roarke, a fat cat, and, okay, Somshit.

You just never knew where life would take you.

Or death, either, she thought.

She gathered her things, headed out. Despite the tie—yellow flowers over a sea of green that made her eyes want to bleed—she walked to Jenkinson’s desk.

“Anything hits I need to know, tag me. Otherwise handle it. I’m working from home.”

“Sure thing, boss.” His gaze drifted up; his lips twisted into a smug smirk.

“What?”

“Just thinking how you rag on my ties, but you got a pink unicorn in your hair.”

“I—crap!” She reached up, dragged it out. “Not on purpose. Yours is deliberate.”

Because she couldn’t just ditch it, she stuffed the clip in her pocket and tried to stride out with dignity.

* * *

By the time she got home, Eve had a reasonable plan of attack for the work. She walked in just as Summerset walked down the stairs.

His eyebrows arched up. “Has there been an alien invasion? Perhaps a zombie apocalypse?”

“We’ve got the zombie right here.” She stripped off her coat, tossed it over the newel post as he continued down. Then she dug into her file bag. “I’m supposed to show this to you.”

She unrolled the painting, held it up. “Mavis brought the kid by. It’s her work—the kid’s not Mavis’s.”

He smiled—and that was creepy. “Yes, I see. Very colorful.”

“It’s the house, and . . . the rest of us.” Eve tapped a blob. “She says this is you.” And waited a beat. “Somshit.”

He laughed—and that was way creepy. “I’m flattered.”

“Well, anyway.” Eve rolled it up again. “She wants me to put it up somewhere.” This time she waited longer than a beat.

“Naturally. It’s a long tradition in many families to display a child’s artwork on the friggie.”

“Why?”

“The kitchen’s often considered the hub or heart of the house. Though that might not be the case for you, I would think your office kitchen would serve.”

“Right.” She started up the stairs, stopped when he spoke again.

“The unrestricted love of a child is a precious gift.”

“I get that.”

“I thought you would tell him, was sure of it. I was wrong.”

She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “I didn’t have proof,” she began, and he said nothing. “And what good would it have done, for him, if I’d told Roarke I suspected the man he thinks of as his father killed Patrick Roarke?”

“I thought you would tell him,” Summerset said again, simply. “Due to—beyond our personal . . . friction—your duty to the law, and your loyalty to Roarke.”

“Those are exactly the reasons I didn’t tell him.”

“I don’t understand you.”