Toby’s body began to vibrate, as if he could barely contain his emotions. “Mother wrote it all down. She didn’t think I’d ever find out, but I…” The spate of words trickled to a stop. “You are my father.”
It was as much question as statement, the one crack of uncertainty in the boy’s otherwise confident facade.
“I know you didn’t expect me,” Toby said, slipping into a surprisingly engaging diffidence. “Mother never told you about me. She was never going to tell me, either. That was wrong, wasn’t it?”
If it hadn’t been for the boy’s age, Ross might have suspected he was being played. But Toby was as sincere as any eleven-year-old kid could be.
“You said she wrote it all down,” Ross said. “Did she say…why she didn’t want to tell us?”
“Yes.” Tobias frowned, a swift debate going on behind his eyes. “But it doesn’t matter to me, Father. I don’t care if you’re only part werewolf and can’t Change.”
Ross was careful not to let his face reveal his emotions. He’d known, of course. Lovesick fool that he’d been, even at nineteen he’d been able to guess the reason why she’d left him.
“You aren’t angry, are you?” Toby said into the silence. “You won’t send me back? I promise I won’t be any trouble.”
Ross stifled a laugh. Trouble? Hell, none of this was the kid’s fault. Ross knew who to blame. And she didn’t even have the courage to face the situation she’d created.
With a little bit of help from you, Ross, me boyo…
Toby continued to gaze up at him, committed to the belief that had carried him across the Atlantic. If there was the slightest trace of doubt in his eyes, it was buried by stubborn determination. And blind, foolish, unshakable faith. Just like the kind Ross had had, once upon a time.
A small, firm hand worked its way into his.
“Are you all right?” Toby asked, his eyes as worried as they had been resolute a moment before.
The feel of that trusting hand was unlike anything Ross could remember. He felt strangely humbled and deeply inadequate. Nothing and no one had made him feel that way in a very long time.
“I’m all right, kid,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not exactly used to this sort of thing.”
“Neither am I.”
Ross bit back another laugh. Toby only reached halfway up to his chest, but he was every bit as precocious as Warbrick had said. Maybe that would make it easier.
Easier to do what? To convince him he has to go back to his mother? That whatever he thinks he’s looking for, I’m not it?
“I gotta warn you, Toby,” he said, “The way you’re used to living…well, I’m pretty sure it’s a lot different from my place.”
Toby gave a little bounce of excitement, as if something tightly wound inside him was beginning to give way. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve read Dashiell Hammett. I know all about American detectives.”
Ross rolled his eyes. How did a kid his age get hold of Hammett’s books, especially in England? That was rough stuff for an eleven-year-old boy. And it had probably given him ideas no real cop or detective could live up to. Especially not Ross Kavanagh.
To think that just a few hours ago he’d thought his problems couldn’t get any worse.
Start simple, he told himself. “You hungry?” he asked.
Toby turned on that high-voltage grin. “Oh, yes! May we have frankfurters, please?”
“You’ve never had a hot dog?”
“I’ve only read about them. They must be the cat’s pajamas.”
The American slang sounded funny coming out of this kid’s mouth. “Yeah. The height of gourmet dining.” Ross spotted a vendor down the street, a guy he’d known almost as long as he’d been on the job.
“Mr. Kavanagh!” Petrocelli said cheerfully. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
You had to give it to Petrocelli. He’d never indicated that he knew anything about Ross’s disgrace, even though it had been in all the papers. “Two dogs, Luigi. Easy on the sauerkraut.”
“You bet.” The man began slathering two buns with mustard, ketchup and sauerkraut. Toby stood on his toes and watched, politely restrained, but clearly ravenous. He thanked the vendor very graciously, glanced at Ross for permission, then bit into his hot dog with every indication of pure bliss, just like any redblooded American boy.
“Relative of yours?” Petrocelli asked. “There’s something familiar about him.”
The vendor’s casual words hit Ross like a line drive. He grabbed Toby and pulled him away before he was tempted to make up some pathetic story about a long-lost nephew.
At least the long-lost part is accurate.
Oblivious to Ross’s turmoil, Toby drifted along the sidewalk, hot dog in hand, turning in slow circles as he took in the towering buildings on every side. Ross plucked him from the edge of the kerb when he would have walked right into the street.
“Listen, kid,” he said, planting Toby in front of him. “This is New York. Haven’t you ever been in a big city before?”
Toby gazed at him with the slightly blank expression of a rube just off the train from Podunk. “Grandfather, Mother and I went to London once, when I was very small. I don’t really remember.”
Ross was momentarily distracted by thoughts of Gillian and grimly forced his attention back to the matter at hand. “London ain’t New York,” he said. “You can get yourself hurt a hundred different ways here if you’re not careful.”
“Oh! You don’t have to worry. I can take care of myself.”
Ross tried to imagine what it must have been like for a little boy to cross the ocean alone and make his way from the docks to Midtown without adult assistance. The kid had guts, no doubt of that. “Do you have any money?” he asked.
Toby plunged his hand into his trousers and removed a wad of badly crinkled bills. “I have pound notes and a few American dollars,” he said. “Do you need them, Father?”
Damn. “You hold on to them for now.” He frowned at Toby’s gray tweed suit with its perfectly cut jacket and short trousers, now disheveled and stained. “That the only outfit you’ve got?”
“Oh, no. I have another suit in my bag. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to change.”
His expression was suddenly anxious, as if he expected Ross to blame him for the state of his clothes. Ross reached out and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m down to my last clean shirt myself. Guys in my line of
