hand over his heart was the only outward sign of grief he allowed himself to show.
He heard a noisy sniffle behind his right shoulder and glanced up to see his father’s administrative assistant, Brooke Hansford, wiping away the tears beneath her thick, owl-like glasses. Brooke had been his father’s organizational and technological savior at work. And though he’d always figured she was about his age—thirty—she looked young and fragile and completely vulnerable with her pale cheeks and red-tipped nose.
Lacking a second handkerchief to give her, Atticus waited until her puffy gaze met his and he offered her a wink. Brooke responded with a hasty smile and a loud sniff before ducking her head to dig into her oversize purse—for a tissue, no doubt.
Yeah. The bastard who’d killed John Kincaid had robbed a lot of good people of someone they loved.
The minister was saying a last few words, but checking on Brooke had already diverted Atticus’s attention to the other mourners surrounding them. He spotted his older brother, Sawyer, standing hatless in the rain, his anger and grief evident in the grim expression on a face that was normally creased with a smile. He was shifting from foot to foot, restlessly scanning the crowd as he listened to the graying man standing beside him. Though a black umbrella obscured part of his face, William Caldwell, one of their father’s oldest friends, was easily recognized by the expensive tailoring of his suit and coat and the gold fraternity ring that matched the one his father had been buried with.
A lot of people were hurting today.
Atticus absorbed each flinch of his mother’s hand as the honor guard sounded off their twenty-one-gun salute. But he barely heard the explosive pops himself as he swung his gaze around to find one more family member.
It wasn’t until his mother clasped the folded flag to her chest and he stood beside her that Atticus finally located his oldest brother, Edward, standing beneath a canopy of pine boughs and budding ash branches, some thirty yards from the main group. Edward seemed to be leaning heavily on his cane, but his chin was held high, and he looked a hell of a lot more put together than the last time Atticus had seen him.
Susan Kincaid squeezed Atticus’s arm. She’d seen her oldest child, too. “Go talk to him, will you, son? I don’t want Edward to think he’s all alone at a time like this.”
Edward had chosen to be alone for months now, but today wasn’t the day to point out that fact. “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded to Holden to take his place at their mother’s side. “Holden?”
“I’ll stick with her.” Holden drew her hand into the crook of his arm.
“You did a beautiful job, sweetie.” As Susan stretched up to kiss her youngest son’s cheek, Atticus pulled down the brim of his KCPD hat and picked up an umbrella to do her bidding.
He wasted no time cutting straight across the sloping hill. Edward might have become a pro at hiding out in a shadowy house or the bottom of a bottle, but no way could he outrun his determined brother. The master detective’s shield Edward had locked away might outrank Atticus’s own detective’s badge, but as far as he was concerned, their mom outranked them all. And if she wanted someone to bring Edward back into the family fold, then, by damn, Atticus was going to do it.
Edward’s gray eyes, one of the few things they seemed to have in common these days, scowled at Atticus’s outstretched hand.
But stubbornness was another shared trait. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize what this means, Edward. It’s good to see you.”
His oldest brother seemed to need time to process what the gesture of man-to-man friendship might cost him. But then perhaps he remembered which brother could go the longest before saying “uncle” in one of their childhood backyard pile-on tussling matches. Atticus was relieved to feel the firmness of Edward’s grip when he finally reached out to shake his hand. “Don’t you dare try to hug me.”
Atticus’s mouth curved with half a laugh. He shifted to stand beside his brother and watch the distant pomp and grieving from his lonely perspective. Maybe the silence should have been awkward. But Edward had never been much of a talker. The soft patter of the rain on the overhanging branches was a soothing sound in the quiet, and the deep scent of the wet pine surrounding them reminded Atticus of saner, happier times when their father had taken the boys camping and fishing on weekend trips.
But the sweet memories of all they had lost began to curdle in Atticus’s stomach, and the solace of the moment passed. Since Edward hadn’t yet bolted for cover, Atticus carried out their mother’s request. “You should come say hi to Mom. She knows you’re here, but it’d mean a hell of a lot to her if you made the effort to touch base.” He glanced over at Edward, who rested both hands on the grip of his cane now. “She’s hurting. We all are.”
“I don’t hurt anymore.” The words rolled out with a dark note of finality. Maybe he’d been in pain for so long that he was done feeling anything. Was it respect alone that had made him get out of bed and trim his beard and get here this afternoon? Edward tilted his thick walnut cane and pointed toward the green awning. “But this pisses me off.”
So big brother felt something, after all.
There was more silence as the crowd began to disperse, opening umbrellas and turning up collars as they walked down the hill to the cars lining the road that twisted through Mount Washington Cemetery. Finally, Edward pulled back his shoulders and turned to Atticus with a gut-deep sigh. “I’m sure Mom has invited people over to the house, but I can’t do the small-talk thing. Just give her my love.”
“Give it to her yourself. Let me get Sawyer and Holden on this. We’ll keep everyone away and you can have a private moment with her before she leaves Mount Washington.”
Edward thought hard about the offer, then nodded.
“You know, Ed, if you ever need anything—”
“Don’t go there.” A muscle ticked beneath the scar slashing along Edward’s jaw. “I’ll meet you by her car in ten minutes.” He limped away from the crowd, pausing at the far edge of the copse of trees. He never turned back around. “Thanks, A. It’s good to see you, too.”
The gruff admission may have been the truest comfort Atticus had had since learning of their father’s murder several days earlier. But the reprieve was over. With the hardest part of his mission accomplished, Atticus easily spotted Sawyer, standing a head taller than anyone else in the crowd, and went to make the arrangements for the meeting.
He was on track to find Holden and their mother when a smooth feminine voice purred behind him. “Atticus.” Familiar white-tipped nails clutched the sleeve of his jacket, stopping him. Atticus braced as a blond-haired woman lowered her umbrella and stepped into view. Every silvery-gold strand was perfectly placed around her striking features, every word was carefully chosen. “I’m so sorry this had to happen to you—to your family.”
“Hayley.” He couldn’t help but check to see if her cameraman was trailing behind her. Despite the male escort he didn’t recognize standing back at a polite distance, she appeared to be unplugged. Say something nice. After all, those could be tears, not raindrops glistening on her cheeks. “Thanks for coming.”
“Your father was a valuable asset to the police department. He was always good about keeping the lines of communication open with the press. He raised four wonderful sons, as well. I admired him.” The nails dug in as Hayley Resnick tipped her lips up to kiss him.
Uh-uh.
