all he could muster.
“Let’s see if Mason remembers Brandon, Belle.”
Rick’s little girl curled her fingers trustingly around Brandon’s then she pulled him inside, towing him across the scarred hardwood floor that Rick had once planned to refinish. A strange feeling, similar to the sixth sense that prickled up his spine before a dangerous encounter, crawled over him. But there was nothing to fear from this house, Hannah or her children. He attributed the weirdness to the fact that he hadn’t been inside since before Rick’s death, and being here now without his buddy felt wrong somehow.
From the moment Hannah had laid eyes on the place she’d wanted it, and with Brandon’s help, she’d sold Rick on the idea of turning the old house into a dream home for him and the big family the two of them had planned to have.
The foyer was clean but worn. A dark wood intricately carved banister curved upward. Rick had wanted to paint it all white. Correction: he had wanted to con Brandon into doing it or pay someone else to. Rick hadn’t been much on manual labor. He’d been more of an egghead who could visualize the most efficient way for others to implement his plan unless it was a computer program. With those he’d been a tireless genius at building them or picking them apart.
But Brandon had been tied up with his first rental property and couldn’t help, and hiring someone required cash—something cops didn’t have a surplus of. Which meant that jobs had to be prioritized and spread out. So Rick had drawn up a five-year renovation plan and been killed two years into it.
Belle released his hand to grab a toy pony. “This is Molly. I’m going to have a horsey like her when I get big.”
“I like horses, too. We have them in the orchard where I grew up. Your dad and I used to race them between the trees.”
“Daddy could ride?”
“Yeah. I taught him how.”
Brandon spotted a dark-haired boy sitting at a desk in the den, staring into a laptop. He didn’t turn when they entered.
“Mason, come and meet Officer Martin.”
The kid jumped, then punched buttons and quickly shut down the computer. Too quickly? He twisted their way and déjà vu hit Brandon hard, hurling him back to his childhood. Mason was a miniature Rick. Those familiar blue eyes were wary. The cop in Brandon immediately asked why and if it was related to his school issues? But he dismissed the questions. Hannah had introduced him as an officer and a lot of people were uncomfortable around cops.
Brandon crossed the room and stuck out his hand. “Mason, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Brandon, a friend of your dad’s.”
Mason showed no sign of recognition. His expression soured. “My dad’s dead.”
Brandon suppressed a flinch at the inevitable stab of pain. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He was sorry in more ways than the boy would ever know.
Hannah cleared her throat. “Mason.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Mason added at the prompt and shook Brandon’s hand.
“Your dad was good with computers. What do you like to do on them?”
The kid froze then snatched his hand back. His gaze slid left. “Nothing. Just look at stuff.”
That warning prickle intensified. “What kind of stuff?”
Mason swallowed and shrugged. He focused on a point beyond Brandon’s ear.
“Games? Instant messaging? Chat rooms?” Brandon prompted, endeavoring to keep his tone friendly and casual, but red flags were flapping wildly in his subconscious.
Mason shook his head vigorously. “Mom doesn’t allow any of that. It’s just research. For papers I have to write.”
Hannah patted her son’s shoulder. “Mason’s in the accelerated Language Arts class.”
“Your dad was smart in Language Arts. He really liked to read. Sometimes he helped me with book reports.”
The kid rolled his eyes. “Is dinner ready? I’m starving.”
Hannah opened her mouth as if to protest her son’s rudeness, but Brandon caught her gaze and shook his head. No point in alienating someone he was here to study. “I’m hungry, too. Lead the way.”
Hannah’s expression turned apologetic. “I hope you don’t mind baked spaghetti. It’s one of the few things my picky eaters like.”
“Sounds good.” He stopped on the threshold of the dining room. The once dark walls and wainscoting gleamed white. “You painted in here.”
“We’re working our way through the list, slowly, but surely.”
“We’re going to paint my room ’morrow,” mini Hannah chirped.
Brandon heard opportunity knocking. “Oh yeah? Maybe I can help. I like to paint.”
He glanced at Hannah for confirmation. She nodded.
“I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”
Hannah shook her head. “We won’t get home from church until 12:30.”
“I’ll be here when you get home.”
“Don’t you go to church, Occifer Brandon?”
Was the half-pint channeling his mother? “I’m usually working. But tomorrow I’m off. And I can’t think of a better way to spend the day than painting with you.”
Belle beamed. Hannah and Mason looked less than thrilled. But Hannah had asked for his help, and she was going to get it.
HANNAH WAS HAPPY to see the end of the meal. Belle had chattered almost nonstop, but that hadn’t been enough to cover Mason’s monosyllabic responses to Brandon’s questions. Even though Brandon had appeared relaxed, Hannah doubted he’d missed her son’s rudeness, and she was sure she’d hear about it—the same way she heard about it from her in-laws—as soon as they left the table.
“Mason, go take your shower. Belle, pick out your pajamas and a book.”
The children left the room, Belle skipping, Mason moving at a slower, rebellious pace. Hannah missed the days when they both raced up the stairs like a thundering herd and all she had to worry about was one of them falling and getting hurt.
After the footsteps faded Brandon hit her with a somber look across the table. “He wasn’t thrilled to have me here.”
Hannah bolted to her feet and started stacking dishes. “It takes him a while to warm up to strangers. Just like his father. But I really appreciate your efforts to draw him out.” When Brandon rose and grabbed what she couldn’t carry she protested, “You don’t have to do that.”
“In
