office and requesting a root canal be done—for no apparent reason.
Duncan worked his way back to his initial impression of her entrance—and the reason for his previous inquiry. “You were frowning when you came into the squad room just now,” he told her.
Noelle deliberately avoided making any eye contact. “Must have been your imagination.”
Duncan dropped his playful tone and became serious. “No, and it wasn’t my poor vision, either, if that’s what you’re going to suggest next. You definitely looked like you were disturbed about something just now. Anything I can do?” he offered.
He really was persistent, she’d give him that. She knew that most partners tended to share everything, their histories, their feelings. But that was eventually, and she didn’t feel that she was there yet.
For that matter, since she was determined to hold parts of herself in seclusion, she might never be in a place where sharing felt comfortable to her. To share was to be vulnerable.
“How about ten seconds of silence?” she asked in response to his offer.
Duncan seemed to seriously consider her request. But his answer, delivered without a smile, still gave him away. “I can do five.”
Noelle sighed. If only. Out loud she said, “I’ll take what I can get.”
True to his word, Duncan gave her exactly five seconds, glancing at the second hand on his analog watch, a watch his father had given to him when he’d graduated high school. His father had told him that it had belonged to his father and he thought it only fitting that he pass it on.
Ordinarily, Duncan had a fondness for the latest electronic gadgets, but there was something about connecting with his past—a past that had suddenly mushroomed in size around a year ago when he, his siblings and his cousins had discovered that they were part of an already large branch of the Cavanaugh family—that gave him a deep sense of stability as well as intensifying his sense of history.
Counting the seconds now, Duncan looked up at her when the last second faded. “Time’s up,” he announced.
“How about five more?”
“Maybe later,” he answered, then gave her his terms. “After you tell me what’s bothering you.”
Her eyes locked with his. “You mean other than a partner who won’t retreat back into his space and let me work on my reports?”
Duncan inclined his head. “Other than that,” he allowed, then reiterated his observation. “You were definitely frowning and you looked preoccupied.” He dropped all hint of a bantering tone. “C’mon, give. What’s up with you?”
Noelle blew out a breath. “Lucy was pretty upset this morning.”
Lucy. L before M. The alphabetic device was how he remembered who was who. It had taken him a month to get the names straight and stop confusing her grandmother with her daughter.
“Did you find out why?” he asked her.
Noelle nodded. “Henry died.”
“Henry.” Duncan repeated the name, waiting for some sort of identification to follow it. When his partner wasn’t as quick as he felt was prudent, he prodded her a little. “Is that her dog? Or a pet goldfish? Some character on the soap opera that she watches? Or...?”
His voice drifted off as he waited for his partner to set the record straight.
Noelle took offense for her grandmother at the way Duncan had just casually attempted to pigeonhole a woman she had always felt completely defied any ordinary typecasting. Lucy was and always had been one of a kind.
“She doesn’t have a dog or a pet goldfish and the only way that Lucy would wind up watching one of those soap operas would be if someone tied her up in a chair and taped her eyes opened. She absolutely hates soap operas,” Noelle declared with feeling.
“My mistake. So just who is—or was—Henry?” Duncan asked. “Her boyfriend?” he suddenly guessed.
“Her friend,” Noelle countered with emphasis. “According to Lucy, she and Henry had been friends since they were both kids.”
Duncan whistled. “Wow, that’s a lot of years,” he estimated.
“How would you know?” Noelle challenged. “You never met my grandmother.”
“Just a calculated guess,” he answered, backing off. “So what happened? Did he have a heart attack while they were out, or...?”
Noelle pushed the keyboard back on her desk. So much for catching up. She wasn’t going to have any peace until Cavanaugh had the whole story. She had to remember to practice her poker face more often when she was around him.
“They have a standing ‘date’ every other Thursday— Not like that,” she interjected, noting the triumphant look on her partner’s face. “They just go out to eat. Anyway, she picks him up every other Thursday to get him out of that depressing senior retirement home he’s living in.” Since she was stuck telling him this story, she decided to throw in a couple of more details. “Lucy says that ever since Henry moved in there, he’s been behaving like a broken man who was just marking time before he died.”
Duncan inclined his head. He could see that happening. “Well, technically, we’re all just marking time.”
Noelle frowned. That was not what she wanted to hear. “I’d prefer you keeping your cheery comments to yourself, Cavanaugh,” she told him. “Now, do you want me to tell you about this or not?”
He gestured grandly for her to continue with her narrative. “Go ahead.”
Noelle banked down her impatience, deciding that Cavanaugh wasn’t being deliberately annoying, it just seemed to be something that came naturally to him.
“Anyway, when she got there yesterday and knocked on his door, he didn’t answer. After a few minutes, she gave up being polite and just walked in.” She could just see her grandmother sailing full steam ahead into the room—and then stopping dead in her tracks once she realized what had happened. Her heart ached for Lucy. “She found him lying on his bed, dead. He was cold,” she added, “so he’d probably died a few hours before she got there.”
“Had he been ill?” The way Cavanaugh asked the question told her that his interest was clearly piqued. Boredom was really doing a number on the man, she couldn’t help thinking.
“No, actually rather amazingly, Henry was in excellent health, especially when you consider that when he’d moved to the retirement home, it was because he’d had surgery and wasn’t doing all that well on his own. According to Lucy, his recovery progressed rather slowly. Certainly slower than he was happy about. At the time, he’d needed help doing almost everything. It had to be hard for a proud man like him. But Lucy said he did get better eventually.”
“If that’s the case, why did he stay at the home?” Duncan asked. “Why didn’t he just go back to living in his house?”
“Because it was too late,” she answered. “Henry had to sell his house in order to afford living at the retirement home.” Her dismissive laugh was totally
