The Line Between Here and Gone (Forensic Instincts 2)

Paul’s expression softened. “As do I.” He glanced past Amanda, and down the hall. A hint of awe flashed in his eyes. “Is he… Is Justin…in there?”

Amanda felt her heart swell, and she nodded. “He looks so much like you,” she said. “He has your eyes, not just the color, but your shape and your eyelids. Oh, and your eyelashes. Remember how I used to tell you how every woman would kill for those thick lashes of yours? Well, now they’re Justin’s, too. And his nose, Paul. It’s a tiny version of yours. He even has your dimple.” She touched Paul’s cheek with her fingertip. “He’s got so much of you in him. He’s curious about everything. He’s easygoing—until he really wants something. And he’s always moving. He kicked me nonstop my entire last trimester. I’m sure he’s going to be a marathon runner like his father. I’m sure…” Amanda fell apart, her body racked with sobs as her stoic veneer shattered.

Only this time, she had someone to hold her.

Paul wrapped his arms around her and gave her a fierce hug. “We’re going to make thi

s right, Amanda. I’m going to make this right. You’ll see. Our son is going to be just fine.” Emotion clogging his voice, Paul asked, “May I see him? Even through the window?”

“Of course.” Amanda stepped back, dashing away her tears. “I’m sorry. I just still can’t believe that you’re here. That you’re alive. That you’re real. That you didn’t intentionally stay away.”

“I didn’t,” Paul stated fervently. “If you believe nothing else, believe that. I have so much to fill you in on. But later. After I’ve done everything I can for Justin.”

Amanda took Paul by the hand. “Come on. Come meet your son.”

* * *

As they disappeared down the hall, Casey turned to Marc. “Everything’s in place,” she murmured. “The FBI delivered, as promised. Now it’s our turn. Go ahead and take care of what we discussed.”

Marc nodded. “With pleasure.” He sauntered off, leaving the PICU and taking the elevator to the hospital lobby.

He’d already selected the deserted spot in the alleyway where he was going to make his phone call. And, in his pocket, he already had what he needed: the spare burner phone he used for just these types of occasions, along with a voice scrambler.

Calling the FBI tip line was going to be Marc’s pleasure. The information he provided would take care of Lyle Fenton and his mob buddies.

With a grin, Marc set the scrambler in place.

Damn, he loved his job.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Hutch and Mike took off to report in. But the FI team stayed on, hanging out in the waiting room to hear the results of Paul and Amanda’s conversation with Dr. Braeburn.

“I really am good,” Claire announced.

Ryan did a double take and stared at her. “Did I just hear my voice come out of your mouth?”

“Nope. That voice you heard, along with the words, were mine. Everything I sensed was accurate. The binary energy? Paul’s double life. The running? Not just Paul’s disappearance, but the marathon that made it necessary. The covert phone calls I kept picking up on the other side of Paul’s bedroom? His undercover work. And the sense of being followed? Mostly, the FBI. The times when I sensed danger? Fenton, keeping tabs on our search for Paul.” Claire eyed Ryan victoriously, like the cat who swallowed the canary. “You can’t argue with success.”

Patrick gave an exaggerated groan. “God, I think he’s rubbing off on her.”

An interesting choice of words, Casey thought.

Quickly, she glanced at Claire, then Ryan. She watched Claire avert her gaze, her cheeks tinged with pink. And she saw Ryan, who would customarily be delivering one barb after the next, remaining uncharacteristically silent, an odd expression crossing his face.

These two had so slept together, it wasn’t funny.

“You know, Patrick, I think you’re right,” Casey said. “They’re definitely rubbing off on each other. So tell us, guys, when did this start?”

Claire blanched. “What?”

“This sudden self-confidence that smacks of Ryan—only a tad less arrogant.” Casey was the picture of innocence. “When did it start?”

“I’m just acknowledging how right-on my awareness was this time,” Claire said, recovering herself. “I’m pleased that I was connecting. That doesn’t mean I’m professing to be a world-class genius, as do others we know.”

“Like you, I only speak the truth.” Ryan had clearly regained his composure, as well. It was business as usual.

“I speak it. You flaunt it—and exaggerate it,” Claire corrected him.