The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“The staff here has called their security person. He’s on his way to help me.”

“Our killer could be—”

“The security person. I know. I’m on it.”

We disconnect and, since my mother doesn’t know I’m back in law enforcement, I remove my weapon and badge. I then head inside the nursing home, where I’m directed to the recreation room. I find a party underway, with balloons and streamers, cake and laughter. There is also dancing, and the residents and guests boogie on down, including my grandma and grandpa. A smile breaks on my face and my mother appears in front of me, giving me a hug. For the next hour, I’m drawn into family and fun. We eat cake and I sit with my grandfather, singing along to old sixties music and he remembers the words. But he forgets my name.

In the middle of it all, Lang sends me a text, letting me know that he’s got six months of footage to review. He’s headed back to the station to get some help. Just knowing he’s handling this relaxes me back into the party. It’s a good two hours later that I’m sitting in my grandfather’s room with him resting while I chat with my mom and Grandma Carol.

They’re laughing, and I’m struck by how close my mother is to Grandma Carol, when the truth is, they aren’t blood. Since my grandfather adopted my father, and my grandma Carol was his wife of fifty years, she’s not my mother’s blood relative, either. But both my grandparents moved in with us when I was a teen, and my mom was the one who cared for them. She was closer to them than my father ever was. Perhaps because she lost her parents as a child. Or maybe it’s because my father’s mood swings were reined in once they moved in with us.

“I’m glad you came, honey,” my mom says, squeezing my hand.

“I know you think he doesn’t know you’re here,” my grandma adds, “but I believe he does.”

I smile and squeeze her hand. She’s a kind woman who still colors her gray hair brown and loves to fuss in the kitchen. My grandfather loves her baking. I can’t imagine how hard it is for her, for him to remember nothing of their life together.

“I miss the days when he and I listened to jazz and talked about poetry.”

“That reminds me, honey,” she says. “Your mom has all of his old poetry and jazz albums in the attic at her place. If you want them, they’re yours.”

I sit up straighter. “Really?”

“Really,” my grandma says. “Take them. Enjoy them. That would please him.”

The idea that there might be something in those memories that could be a trigger I can use to solve this case has me pushing to my feet. “I’m going there now.”

My mother catches my hand. “Oh God. You’re working that case I heard about, The Poet, aren’t you?”

“Mom—”

“I thought you quit.” Her tone is sharp, accusing even.

“I’m consulting for the FBI. We need to catch this guy.”

“I thought the press conference said they had the killer isolated and there was no mass population danger.” The sharpness is gone. The worry is back.

My lips press together. “They lied. He’s hurt a lot of people. A lot more than the public knows.”

Her lashes lower and then lift. “Just don’t get killed.”

“I won’t.” I don’t promise. We both know I can’t promise.

My grandmother stands up and hugs me, her head coming to my chest. She’s the kind of person who lights up lives and deserves to be protected. The kind of person I do this job for. She gazes up at me and pats my cheek. “I hope something in that attic helps catch him.”

“Me, too, Grandma.” I kiss her and my mother before gently placing a kiss on my sleeping grandfather’s forehead. My heart squeezes. God, how I wish I could talk about this case with him. Instead, I’ll have to settle for his memories as inspiration to catch The Poet.

I’m heading for the door when my mom calls out. “Oh, honey.”

I turn. “Yes, Mom?”

“I put your stuff from that poetry club you taught in a box with the stuff from Grandpa’s poetry club.”

I blanch. “Grandpa taught a poetry club?”

“You don’t remember?” my mom asks. “He had the kids over all the time. Random students he mentored.”

My heart is racing now, adrenaline shooting through me. “I don’t remember this. I mean he helped me set mine up, but I didn’t know he ran one, too.”

My mom waves a hand. “It was after school while he still taught. Maybe it wasn’t a club. Like I said. Mentoring.”

“Yes,” Grandma agrees. “And tutoring. He didn’t have a club. Your mother’s confused. You’d think she was as old as me.” She laughs. “Your grandfather loved mentoring and tutoring more one-on-one. There’s lots of fun stuff in the boxes. Enjoy, honey.”