Life, he thought, as he stared out the wide window wall of his midtown office, could take a big chunk out of your ass when you were least prepared for it.

It was after five already, and his timing had been deliberate. He’d wanted to meet with Moira at the end of the day, so that there was no business to be done afterward. So that he could go home and try to shift it all aside with an evening out with his wife.

His interoffice ’link beeped, and damn him, he nearly jolted.

“Yes, Caro.”

“Ms. O’Bannion’s here.”

“Thanks. Bring her back.”

He watched the traffic, air and sky, and thought idly that the trip home would be a bit of a bitch just now. The commuter trams were already loaded, and from his lofty perch he could see dozens of tired, irritable faces packed together like rowers on a slave ship for the hot journey home.

On the street below, buses were chugging, cabs standing like a clogged river, and the walks and people glides were mobbed.

Eve was down there somewhere, he expected. No doubt having an annoyed thought at the prospect of having to dress up and socialize after a day of chasing a killer.

More than likely, she’d rush in, flustered, with minutes to spare and struggling to make that odd transition from cop to wife. He doubted she had any idea how it thrilled and delighted him to see her make that slippery change.

At the knock on his door, he turned. “Yes.”

His admin brought her in, so that he found himself amused, for a moment, at the sight of two neat, trim, well-dressed women of a certain age stepping into his office.

“Thank you, Caro. Ms. O’Bannion, thank you for coming. Won’t you have a seat? Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

He took her hand, felt hers tremble lightly as he shook it. He gestured to a chair, knowing his manner was smooth, practiced, cool. He couldn’t quite help it.

“I appreciate you making the time for me,” he began, “especially so late in the day.”

“It’s not a problem.”

He could see her taking in his office—the space of it, the style. The art, the furniture, the equipment, the things he was able to surround himself with.

Needed to surround himself with.

“I thought to come to Dochas, but it occurred to me that having a man around the shelter too often may make some of the women, the children, nervous.”

“It’s good for them to be around men. Men who treat them as people and wish them no harm.” She folded her hands in her lap, and though she met his eyes levelly, he could almost hear the quick beat of her heart. “Part of breaking the cycle of abuse is overcoming fear, and reestablishing self-esteem and normal relationships.”

“I wouldn’t argue that, but I wonder—if Siobahn Brody had had more fear, would she have survived? I don’t know precisely what to say to you,” he continued before she could speak. “Or precisely how to say it. I thought I did. First, I want to apologize for taking so long to meet with you again.”

“I’ve been waiting to be fired.” Like his, her voice carried Ireland in it, in wisps and whispers. “Is that why you brought me here today?”

“It’s not, no. I’m sorry, I should’ve realized you’d be concerned after the way I left things. I was angry and . . . distracted.” He gave a short laugh and had to stop himself from raking a hand through his hair. Nerves, he thought. Well, she wasn’t the only one dealing with them. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You were furious, and ready to boot me out on my ass.”

“I was. I told myself you were lying.” His eyes stayed on hers, level and serious. “Had to be. Had to be some angle in there for you telling me this girl you knew back in Dublin was my mother. It was counter to everything I’d known, believed, my whole life, you see.”

“Yes. I do see it.”

“There have been others, from time to time, who’ve wormed their way to me with some story of a relation. Uncle, brother, sister, what have you. Easily refuted, ignored, dealt with.”

“What I told you wasn’t a story, Roarke, but God’s truth.”

“Aye, well.” He looked down at his hands and knew in their shape—the width of palm, the length of fingers—they were his father’s hands. “I knew that, somewhere in the belly, I knew it. It made it worse. Almost unbearable really.”

Tags: J.D. Robb In Death Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net