Grave Secrets (Manhunters 1)

“Of course,” she told her son. Before turning to order the toast, she met Hank’s gaze deliberately. “Goodbye.”

The muscle in Hank’s jaw jumped. He turned his gaze on Ian. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

Ian remained focused on his breakfast. “Uh-huh.”

Hank shot one more warning glance at Savannah before turning toward the dining room and taking a seat at Lyle’s table.

Savannah asked the cook for an order of toast, relieved the confrontation with Hank was over.

At least for the moment.

3

No love lost there.

Ian’s mind churned with this new information. Nothing in a file could compare to the nuance gained by witnessing people and situations in person. And there was more than nuance here. One word on paper: divorce, didn’t begin to encompass the very real conflict buzzing through the Bishop family.

He sipped his coffee and watched Savannah move behind the counter. She had a great little figure. Maybe five foot three, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. Her sexy, compact curves made Ian restless.

But Savannah Bishop was out of bounds. Way out of bounds. Besides, she wasn’t the kind of woman who just slept with a man and walked away the next day. No, Savannah Bishop was a forever kind of girl. And Ian was not a forever kind of guy, which was why he was still a bachelor at thirty-six.

“What color are the Giants?” the kid asked, turning his face up to Ian. He had his mother’s sky-blue eyes and a painfully innocent face.

“Orange and black.” Ian dug his fork into the egg on his plate.

The boy had drawn another stick player on the page and picked up his orange crayon to scribble over it.

“Are you going to be a miner?” Jamison asked without looking up from his drawing.

Ian resisted the urge to roll his eyes and picked up his coffee instead. For reasons he couldn’t begin to comprehend, kids gravitated to him—in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Albania, Turkey, every godforsaken Third World country where he dropped his gear. So much so, his team had dubbed him the Pied Piper.

The US was different. Kids didn’t run free, didn’t talk to strangers. But he still got too many stares, smiles, and wayward visits from children as they wandered away from their parents at the airport or the grocery store. They obviously hadn’t gotten the memo that Ian didn’t even particularly like kids. But over the years, he’d discovered how adults overlooked a child’s ability to pick up on all sorts of information—from their father’s secret weapons cache to their community’s planned attack on local military forces.

“Don’t know yet,” Ian told him. “How ’bout you? Are you gonna be a miner when you grow up?”

The kid crinkled his nose in a derisive expression. “No.”

“Right. Probably a sheriff like your dad, huh?”

Jamison cut a look at Ian. “Hell, no.”

Ian chuckled, surprised and amused.

“Jamison.” Savannah’s hushed voice held an edge. One that made Ian choke back his laughter and Jamison cringe.

“My fault.” Ian stepped up to cushion the blow. “I’m not exactly the best influence.”

“Jamison has his own mind, and his language degraded long before sitting at this counter next to you. He makes his own decisions. Don’t you, Jamison?”

“Yes.” He met Ian’s gaze, then his mother’s. “Sorry.”

Savannah reached across the counter, ran h

er fingers through her son’s hair. “I’m sorry you don’t feel good.”

The sweet moment was interrupted by the cook’s “Toast” from the kitchen.

Savannah retrieved the plate and set it in front of Jamison. Once her son was buttering the bread, she settled her gaze on Ian, and a blip of awareness hiccupped through his system.