three of them and was seated before he sat down and continued that line of conversation. “My dad would never let me have a dog, so I mostly hung out with the ones in the neighborhood. Even when they disobeyed their owners, they usually listened to my commands. Labs were my favorite. What breed did you have?”
“Trixie was just a little white mutt, but I loved her,” Zoe said without looking at Linc. Her somber mood caused him to reach out. She permitted him to lay his hand over hers where it rested on the table next to her paper plate, and he could feel a slight tremor. “She disappeared.”
“You never found her? I’m sorry.”
Although Zoe raised her chin and squared her shoulders, he could tell it was an effort for her. When she said, “I think my brother got rid of her because he was mad at me,” Linc was dumbstruck. His fingers tightened around hers and Zoe squeezed back. What could he possibly say to help her heal from a trauma like that? A child losing a beloved pet was bad enough. Suspecting that her own brother was behind it had to ache all the way to her core.
Linc placed his other hand over their joined ones and simply waited. This was a truly amazing woman. She had been hurt and had suffered loss repeatedly, yet she’d insisted that there was something inside Boyd worth saving. Was that forgiveness or naïveté? Maybe it was both. And maybe she was relying on her Christian faith for the strength to not only face each day but to soothe the wounds of the past.
He had been counseled to do the same. He knew it would help him cope. But he wasn’t ready to forgive the lies that had led to the loss of his friends in combat or the woman who had told them so convincingly. And that didn’t include his father’s betrayal of their family and the bevy of falsehoods that man had spewed.
Zoe was a better Christian than he’d ever be, Linc ultimately concluded, meaning she was probably telling the truth about Boyd, too. The main reason he hated to admit that was because it meant he was further from apprehending the escapee than anyone had anticipated.
And more innocents were probably going to die.
Staring at their joined hands, Linc promised himself he would not let one of those victims be Zoe Sullivan.
* * *
During most of the meal, Zoe had concentrated on Freddy rather than pretending to be upbeat. She did manage to eat a little, but her appetite was nil. Neither she nor Linc had talked a lot, although he had made a few attempts at casual conversation. Freddy, on the other hand, was his usual loquacious self.
“Don’t try to talk until you swallow, honey,” she prompted. “It’s not polite.”
“Mmm.” His grin would have been edged with tomato sauce if she hadn’t been wiping his face frequently as he ate. “When can I play with the puppy?”
“After we’re done,” she said. “And no feeding her from the table. Dogs don’t like pizza.”
“Yes they do.” To prove his point, the boy leaned to one side and let Star lick his messy fingers.
Linc stopped him firmly. “Don’t. Please. Working K-9s are not supposed to take food from anybody but their handlers. You need to help her keep the rules, okay?”
“Okay.” Subdued, Freddy straightened while Zoe cleaned the hand that had been offered to Star. “I’m done. Can I play now?”
“After we wash you with soap at the sink,” his mother said.
Linc stood first. “I’ll take care of him for you. Finish your meal. You’ve hardly eaten a thing.”
She didn’t argue. Excuses were unnecessary. The man was observant enough to tell she’d lost her appetite and to no doubt guess which part of their earlier conversation had caused it. Most of the time she was able to keep her unhappy past at bay, but once in a while, like today, it reared up and bit her hard enough to draw figurative blood all over again.
Watching him scoop up a messy Freddy and hold him at arm’s length, Zoe was touched. Her son was giggling instead of fighting the cleanup and Linc was grinning as if he, too, was having fun. Soapy water splashed the counter and Freddy’s shirt, but Linc dried everything off before setting the boy on the floor and telling Star it was okay to play.
When he resumed his seat at the table, Zoe took a bite of her now-cold pizza just to please him. “I’m really not hungry.”
“Well, maybe you will be later. Want me to slip the leftovers into your fridge?”
“Sure. That would be fine. Don’t bother wrapping them. They never last long enough to get stale.”
Linc had put the pizza away and was straightening when she saw him pause and apparently listen to his earpiece. He touched the mic on his shoulder. “Copy. Did you take a report?”
Again, he listened, making Zoe curious. It wasn’t until he had ended his one-sided conversation that she asked, “More trouble?”
“Not about your brother, if that’s what you mean. Do you know Yvette Crenville? She’s the base nutritionist.”
“I think I may have met her. Why?” Zoe held her breath, hoping he wasn’t going to cite more mayhem. “Is she okay?”
“Yes. But she reported harassment, so I wondered if there might be any connection to your problems.”
“Who bothered her?”
“I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you since she says it’s already shown up on that unauthorized base blog we’ve been trying to silence.”
“The one that claims to have all the inside info on Boyd and blames me for keeping his whereabouts a secret?”
“Yeah, and insists your encounters with prowlers are fake and meant to distract us from tracking him. Whoever’s been writing it apparently keeps shutting down in one place and popping up in another before we can get a handle on the location. I suppose if the brass gave it high priority, they could stop it, but so far it’s proved fairly unimportant. It is bothersome, though.”
“No kidding. What’s the story on Yvette?”
“She says she’s afraid of one of the aircraft mechanics. Jim Ahern.”
Zoe smiled slightly. “That guy may think he’s a priceless gift to all women, but he seems pretty harmless.”
She had expected Linc to ease up and was taken aback when he frowned instead. “What’s wrong?”
“Ahern was one of the only other people who visited your brother in prison. We checked him out thoroughly, but since his name has popped up again, maybe we need to keep a closer eye on him.” He sat down at the table opposite her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Remember I told you I found out from one of Boyd’s cell mates that he had a burner phone? A lifer named Johnny Motes. He told us that the calls Boyd had made sounded more businesslike than romantic, so we figured he was contacting cohorts on the outside.”
“What makes you believe anything a convict says? He could have lied.”
“Yes, he could have. But Motes was negotiating for a better pillow and five hundred bucks in his commissary account, so we figured he was probably on the up-and-up. If I hadn’t been so sure he was being
