Grace Under Fire (Buchanan-Renard 14)

No one ever told her anything. She supposed it was her own fault. She made it a point not to ever ask about Michael. She thought about him, though, not all that often, she qualified, just every now and again.

“I thought you were a Navy SEAL.”

“I am a Navy SEAL, but my active duty is over.”

Field led them into a room that resembled what she surmised a cell at Alcatraz must have looked like. The walls were gray, the ceiling was gray, and the floors were gray. There was a square glass window looking out at the hallway, but blinds covered it. A ceiling light shone on the gray metal table and chairs. She imagined this was the kind of room that encouraged a depressed person to kill himself. Having to stay here long would be suffocating.

As soon as Field left and the door closed behind him, she said, “Let me get this straight. You went to college, graduated at, what? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

“Almost twenty,” he corrected.

He pulled out a chair for her to sit, but she ignored it. Hand on hip, she said, “I’m almost twenty-three, and I just graduated. No one graduates from college at twenty.”

“I did, and so did Dylan.”

“How is that possible?”

“We took a lot of courses when we were seniors in high school and took summer classes in college.”

“I didn’t do that.”

“You had a lot to deal with when you were a senior in high school.”

“Oh.” Then, “You went to law school and graduated at twenty-three?”

“Yes.”

“Then you took the bar and decided to become a Navy SEAL. Who does that?”

“Apparently I do.”

“How old are you now? Forty?”

He laughed. “Twenty-eight,” he answered.

“Are you going to stay in the Navy?”

“No,” he answered. “Isabel, why are you asking all these questions?”

She shrugged. She didn’t have the faintest idea why she was grilling him or why all of his answers made her mad.

There was a knock on the door, and a man walked in who introduced himself as the captain. He was a rather heavyset man with silver-tipped hair and a leathery face from years spent outdoors.

“That was some mighty fine shooting today, young lady. The man you protected is in surgery now.”

“Will he make it?” she asked.

“We’re hoping he will.”

“Do you know who he is?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he answered. Before she could ask any other questions, he turned to Michael and shook his hand. “I heard you were here. How’s your brother?”

Michael smiled. “Which one?”

“Dylan, of course.” He turned to Isabel and explained. “He used to work for me.” He chuckled as he added, “Actually, I think he thought I worked for him, and some days I did. We were sorry to lose him.”

Isabel responded, “Lose him? Dylan didn’t die. He moved to South Carolina and married my sister.”