10
No doubt this wasn’t exactly what Kit had in mind when she’d asked he needed. But she’d asked and he’d answered honestly and here they were, four days later, on a road trip that felt an awful lot like an escape.
“The bottom line is, I’m just a better driver than you, Beckett Walker.”
A line of reddish-brown brick townhomes rambled by as Kit steered her car down the Chicago suburb’s residential neighborhood. Late-afternoon sunlight sifted through aged trees, their tawny leaves waving in the breeze.
“Believe whatever you want.” He shrugged in the passenger seat. “We both know you never could’ve navigated your way here without me.”
“Bert and I would’ve been perfectly okay without you.”
“A girl who names her GPS is not perfectly okay. She’s perfectly peculiar.” He tapped the window. “One more block.”
He still couldn’t believe she’d actually agreed to come along, but maybe Kit had her own reasons for wanting to get away from Maple Valley for a while. If he’d had his way, they would’ve ditched town right away last week. But he’d needed to get over to Ames first to see Webster’s old social worker. Too, he’d promised his help to Drew Renwycke over the weekend on Kit’s barn.
Besides, better for Kit that they were taking off on a weekday. The orchard wasn’t nearly as busy during the week and she’d feel better leaving things in Willa’s hands for a few days.
Originally, he’d only thought to travel to Boston—pack up his office, his apartment. But after visiting with that social worker, he’d decided to make a stop in Chicago, as well. They’d crash with Logan and Amelia tonight. Tomorrow he’d meet with Webster’s friend’s new DHS case manager.
They’d catch a flight to Boston tomorrow night, then drive his own car back to Chicago on the weekend to pick up Kit’s vehicle. A convoluted travel itinerary, sure, but it meant hours alone in a car with Kit. Somehow in recent weeks he’d gone from dodging her company to craving it.
“Hey.” His tone beckoned a momentary glance from Kit.
“Yeah?”
“Have I told you yet how glad I am you came along for the ride?” He probably would’ve spent the whole trip today fretting about the future, about Dad, if not for Kit’s presence.
“Only ten or eleven times. Might as well make it an even dozen.” She tipped her sunglasses onto her forehead, strands of hair slipping from her ponytail as she did.
He fought the urge to reach across the console and brush them behind her ear.
“Better yet, explain to me how in the world you got that social worker to tell you where that friend of Webster’s is now. What’s her name again?”
“Amanda. And I guess I’m more persuasive in person.”
Kit looked away from the road just long enough to scold him with her eyes. “You flirted with her, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t flirt—”
“You did. I know you. And now you’re going to do the same thing to the social worker in Chicago.”
“You don’t know that. What if this one’s a man?”
“You are something else, Beckett.”
“Hey, I did what I had to do to get the information I needed.” He’d found out Amanda’s birth mother had temporarily regained custody and then promptly broken parole by moving across state lines and getting high at a Chicago club. But by the time law enforcement and child protective services got involved, Amanda had already settled in a new school and reconnected with extended family in Illinois.
So a new social worker had taken over and a relative had temporary custody until Amanda’s eighteenth birthday, which apparently wasn’t that far off. Perhaps that information might have been enough for Webster. But Beckett had a feeling the boy wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d heard from his friend himself.
“I didn’t flirt,” he reiterated. “I just made an eloquent little speech, if I do say so myself, while being friendly and nice.”
“You flirted and you know it.”
“There’s a difference between throwing out a compliment or two, being a little bit charming, and actual, legit flirting.”
“Whatever.”
He was tempted to argue. Show her just what he meant. But instead, perhaps because he liked the idea a little too much, he straightened in his seat. “There, the brownstone on the corner.”
Kit slowed the car and turned into the driveway. “So this was Kate’s house?”
“Yep, she moved home in February, I think, and hadn’t really gotten around to deciding what to do with the place by the time Amelia and Logan took off for Chicago this summer.” He released his seatbelt as the engine cut off. “Apparently Amelia had a job offer here and Logan followed her like a lovesick puppy.”
Which was funny, considering. Kate had moved home in large part for Colton, leaving an empty house in Chicago. Logan had taken off for Chicago with Amelia and left an empty apartment in LA. And though not for the romantic reasons of his siblings, Beckett now had a deserted place in Boston.
“You say ‘lovesick’ with a smirk, Beck, but it’s the sweetest thing ever and you know it.”
“And anyway, they eloped and Kate offered them the place with the promise that they let her crash here once in a while when she needs to get some writing done.”
“Funny—the thought of her leaving quiet, small-town Iowa to come to Chicago to write. You’d think it’d be the other way around.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve seen Dad’s house. He’s basically running a bustling B&B at this point. Plus, there’s this not-so-little distraction back home in the form of Colton Greene.”
He started to open his door, but she stopped him with her next question. “Why the JAG Corps, Beck?”
His fingers slid from the car handle to the armrest. “What brought that up?”
“Talking about your siblings and their careers and big moves, it just made me wonder. Why military law? Why now?”
“It checks off the boxes. Travel, excitement, variety. More than that, I want to feel like I’m doing something meaningful. I want to feel like I was made for it—like you and your trees.” At her questioning look, he elaborated. “Corporate law was interesting at first. But it got boring fast. Then one evening this spring I was hanging out at Salt Island—this beach I like north of Boston—and, I don’t know, it’s like the idea of joining the Corps rode in on a wave or something. It’d been in the back of my head forever, but somewhere along the way, I’d completely forgotten about it. Got distracted, drifted. I do that sometimes, I guess.”
Kit nodded. “I understand. That’s how I felt in London. Like I never fully belonged. Like I was living someone else’s life.”
At some point, they’d slipped from the car, met at the trunk. A sharp wind scraped over his cheeks and wreaked even further havoc on Kit’s ponytail. She wore the same faded jeans he’d seen her in a hundred times and a plaid flannel shirt she’d told him once she would’ve been laughed out of London for wearing.
“I came home and turned right back into the farm girl I used to be,” she’d said.
Yeah, well, farm girl looked good on her. As did messy ponytails and cheeks brushed with cold, Chicago sky no match for her blue eyes. She reached for the overpacked suitcase he’d teased her about eight hours ago.
He nabbed her hand now, before she could pull out the suitcase. “Wait.”
“Oh, come on, it is not that heavy. No matter how much you exaggerated earlier, acting like you were carrying a bag of cement blocks and—”
He quieted her with a step forward. And then he did what he’d wanted to earlier. Reached with his free hand to tuck her loose hair behind her ears. He didn’t miss her sudden inhale, nor the way his own senses instantly stood at attention, awareness thick in the miniscule space between them. “Thank you. Even dozen.”
She blinked, glanced down at their entwined hands. And when she looked back at him, for the first time he could ever remember, he couldn’t read her eyes, couldn’t hear her thoughts.
But when her gaze trailed mere inches, down his face toward his lips, he felt it—the tug of her desire. Or maybe that was his own. Or something shared.
“Uncle Beck!”
Charlie’s voice hurdled into the moment so forcefully he practically thrust Kit’s hand away. Which must’ve amused her as much as it startled her, because her laughter joined the sound of Charlie’s pattering footsteps running toward them.
His niece was in his arms in seconds, her hands reaching around his neck for a hug.
He tried to catch Kit’s eyes once more over Charlie’s shoulders, but she’d hidden her flushed cheeks in the trunk, reaching in to pull out her suitcase. So instead he planted a kiss on Charlie’s head. “How’s my favorite niece?”
The four-year-old leaned back to place both her hands on his cheeks. “You need to shave.”
Kit laughed again, and this time when he glanced past Charlie, he met her gaze. And something freeing and flawless glided through him.
And then Logan and Amelia were emerging from the house and a round of hugs followed, all the while Charlie tugging him toward the brownstone. “You have to see my bedroom. It used to be Aunt Kate’s only it looks different now ’cause my mom painted it.”
There was no mistaking the delight that played over Amelia’s face as Logan’s daughter referred to her as Mom. Nor Logan’s look of pride. To think, just six months ago Charlie had barely spoken at all. Concern about his daughter’s speech delay had been just one of the reasons Logan made the decision to take a break from his busy speechwriting career in LA and spend some time in Maple Valley. Now look how his life had changed.
Logan pulled Kit’s suitcase behind him, and Beckett slid his duffel bag over his shoulder. Charlie pulled away and raced into the house, Amelia and Kit on her heels.
“Thanks for letting us crash here,” Beckett said as he followed Logan up the cement steps.
“Of course.” Logan stopped on the top step, resting one hand on the metal railing and the other on the handle of Kit’s suitcase. “Listen, Beckett.”
Beckett paused two steps below, sensing what was coming before Logan went on. “It’s okay, Log—”
“No, I need to say it. I’m really sorry about not telling you.” Sincerity rimmed his eyes.
“Dad asked you not to.”
“And he had reasons that all stemmed from a good place. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t hurtful to you. If I’d been in your shoes . . .” He matched Beckett’s shrug with one of his own. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” Perhaps surprisingly, he meant it. There was too much else crowding his mind these days to let useless anger at his brother take up space.
Eventually, you need to have this same conversation with Dad. Needed to let go of so much more. But for now, for these few days, he just wanted to forget.
Logan appeared relieved at Beckett’s easy acceptance, but he didn’t move to the doorway. Only peered at Beckett.
“You waiting for something? We can hug it out if you want, but we hugged back at the car and that seems like enough. Handshake?”
Logan shook his head. His wedding ring glinted in the sun as he pushed down the handle of Kit’s suitcase. “Nah, just deciding how long I’m supposed to wait before I taunt you about Kit.”
“Say again?”
“You brought her along.”
“So?”
“So, I looked out the window when we heard the car in the driveway.”
The implication settled in. “I’m trying to think of the name of that nosy neighbor lady on that old show with the chick who twitches her nose.”
“Mrs. Cratchett. Bewitched.”
“That’s the one.” He shifted his duffel bag to the other shoulder.
“I’m just saying, you were standing awfully close and I kinda think if Charlie hadn’t escaped from the house—”
“Shut up.” He budged past his brother.
“Is that any way to talk to your host?”
Logan’s laughter followed him into the house.
Kit flopped over in the daybed in Charlie’s room—formerly Beckett’s sister’s room. She tried fluffing her pillow, flinging off the comforter. No use.
Restless energy barred her from sleep. She should’ve known not to have that second cup of coffee after dinner. But it’d smelled so good—crème brûlée flavored, a perfect complement to their dessert of pumpkin cheesecake. That on top of the dinner of lasagna and breadsticks had put her into a blissful food coma earlier this evening.
Or maybe it was the laughter, the conversation that had filled her with what could only be satisfaction. Pure, unadulterated satisfaction. For a few hours there, she hadn’t thought even once about the orchard or Dad or Lucas. It should’ve been enough to quell the effects of caffeine and lull her into a contented sleep.
But she’d been lying here for nearly an hour, eyes that refused to stay closed tracing the pattern of curtain-muffled moonlight on the carpet. Finally, she slipped from the pink sheets of Charlie’s bed and padded barefoot to the doorway. Maybe a glass of water would help.
She tiptoed past the bedroom that belonged to Logan and Amelia, where Charlie was bunking tonight, as well. Apparently the little family had decided to make an adventure of it. Charlie had insisted that Kit look in earlier. “We’re going camping in the house. We’ve got sleeping bags and pillows and blankets and everything.” She’d spied the bed edged against the wall and filling most of the rest of the room, a tent.
They should win some kind of award for being the cutest family ever. Logan and his daughter and brand new wife. Even from the brief time she’d spent around Amelia, she’d been able to pick up on the bits and pieces of the woman’s own hurt-filled past. A broken marriage and unwanted divorce. Forgotten dreams only recently revived. Logan, of course, had lost his first wife in a tragic accident.
Now look at them—so happy this house practically thrummed with it.
One hand glided along the railing leading down to the first floor, where Beckett slept on the couch. She hurried into the kitchen, hoping the running faucet wouldn’t wake his sleeping form. She filled her glass and stopped the water, lifted it to her lips, and—
“Can’t sleep?”
At the whisper over her shoulder, she jerked and whirled. Before she realized what she’d done, she doused the whisperer in water.
Beckett sputtered, but even in his own shock, he managed to stop her from shrieking with one finger to her lips. He caught her toppling glass with his other hand before it could hit the floor.
Water trickled down his cheeks as he grinned and reached around her to set her glass on the counter behind her. Her alarm-filled surprise swept away in a wave of awareness. He stood so close.
And smelled so good, both soapy and masculine—the tips of his hair still damp from the shower she’d heard him take in the bathroom across from Charlie’s room. Or maybe—more likely—from the water she’d just thrown in his face.
“Sorry.” She murmured the word against his finger. Behind her, the faucet dripped.
“What? You don’t think I got clean enough during my first shower of the night?” Even in a whisper, his voice still held its usual rich timbre.
“If you hadn’t snuck up on me—”
“I wasn’t sneaking.”
“Then you must walk like a mountain lion or something, all quiet and careful-like.”
Did he realize he’d pinned her to the counter? One hand still perched behind her. The other, he’d lowered from her mouth and instead angled around her opposite side to fiddle with the faucet until the dripping stopped. “Mountain lions walk quietly?”
“I don’t know,” she hissed into his chest. “Probably.”
And then, with a telling reluctance, she slipped under his arm and away from the counter. Away from him.
When he turned around to her, amusement filled every nook and cranny of his expression. And maybe even a smug knowing. As if he could hear every note of the instantly and absurdly nervous hum feathering through her.
Don’t be ridiculous. This is Beckett.
Beckett who managed to make sleep-tousled hair and a faded old tee look almost alluring.
Not almost. Entirely.
“Sorry I woke you up. And threw a glass of water at you.”
“Stay up for a while. I couldn’t sleep, either. Let’s get a snack.” He turned to the fridge.
“You’re actually hungry after that dinner we had?”
The open fridge lit his profile. “That was, like, four hours ago.” When he turned back to her, his impish grin widened as he pulled the lid off a Tupperware container. “I knew it. One piece of cheesecake left.”
Any argument died at the sight of the dessert. “I’ll get the forks.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “Did I say I was sharing?”
She grabbed two forks from the dish rack in the sink. “You’re too much of a gentleman not to.”
“Quite right.” He said it with a proper lilt, then nudged his head toward the living room. He pushed aside the blanket Amelia had spread over the couch earlier and dropped onto the sheet-covered cushion. He looked up at her. “Well?”
It’s not a bed, it’s a couch.
And this was Beckett. Beckett. There was absolutely no reason for the flutter of nerves accompanying her movement as she sat.
No reason except the firm outline of his arm against hers and the fact that he smelled like a darn forest.
“Fork?” He snatched one from her hand and cut into the cake. He held up the bite in front of him before shaking his head and handing the fork to her with a sigh. “Now I’m such a gentleman, I’m giving you the first bite.”
She curled her legs beside her as they ate, Beckett’s familiar quiet slowly chipping away at her unease until she’d almost entirely relaxed.
“Speaking of gentlemen, tell me about Nigel.”
So much for relaxed. “Why?”
His shrug nudged her. “I don’t know. The guy came all the way to Iowa with you, helped out in the orchard that first day. I mean, kind of feeble-ish, if you ask me. Took a thousand breaks.”
“Don’t be mean.” She couldn’t help a giggle.
“But then he was gone and you haven’t mentioned him once. Awfully stoic for a breakup.” There was something tentative in his voice.
“Actually, Nigel said he doesn’t know how we can technically call it broken up when I was never fully committed to begin with. He says I never let him in.”
And he was right, wasn’t he? Which was worse—the way she’d held Nigel for so long at arm’s length? Or the way she’d let Sam in too far, knowing all along it wasn’t what she truly wanted?
“I don’t know why I do it, ruin relationships. Lucas says it’s a Danby family trait, walking away.” She reached over Beckett’s arm for another bite of cheesecake. “That’s not the person I want to be and yet, if I look at the evidence, I’m usually the one pushing people away.”
She chanced a glance at his face, wondering if his mind had suddenly rewound to the same moment hers had. The gravel road. The almost-kiss.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I think sometimes,” he said slowly, “there’s a fair amount of pushing away on both sides.”
Except, the night of her wedding, he’d done the opposite of pushing her away. She dared to let the memory in—how it’d felt those few potent minutes wearing her wedding dress, buried against Beckett, feeling so very free and so very lost all at the same time.
And then she’d felt his lips on her forehead, her cheek. Her breathing, her heartbeat, the breeze . . . everything had stilled.
Until his head dipped and she yanked away, fear and confusion and an anger he didn’t deserve all unleashed at once.
“Your turn.” She blurted the words, a near-frantic attempt to silence her memory. “You have to have had plenty of girlfriends over the years.” He’d never been short on dates in college.
He stuck his fork into the last bite in the Tupperware container. He lifted his fork and offered it to her. She shook her head.
Only after he’d swallowed it and then slid the container onto the coffee table did he answer. “No one.”
“At all?”
“Well, there’s this girl—Piper from law school. She’s with another firm in Boston. We’re kind of each other’s standing ‘plus one.’ You know, for corporate events, weddings, whatever. But that’s all it is.”
“Does she know that?”
He laughed. “She’s the one who came up with the idea. We were both ultra-focused on making partner as soon as possible. No time for dating or relationships or all that.”
They shifted into a comfortable silence, the clock on the wall over the window ticking away the seconds as Kit tried to convince herself it wasn’t relief tingling through her. It shouldn’t matter to her whether Beckett had dated anyone, or if there was someone waiting for him back in Boston.
But it mattered. No matter how much she denied it, it mattered.
“Besides, Piper has green eyes.”
The comment seemed to come from nowhere. “What?”
He moved on the couch so he faced her, his gaze capturing hers. “I’ve always preferred blue ones.”
She swallowed. “That so?” She squeaked the question.
“And not just any blue eyes, but impossibly blue ones. Logan would have a word for them—luminescent or cerulean or, I don’t know, something fancy.” He leaned closer. “Blue eyes that glimmer with playfulness and shift with your mood and take on every stunning shade of every sparkling ocean, depending on the lighting.”
When had he reached for her hand? And what was he doing? And how was she supposed to breathe with his face so close to hers, uttering such melting words right into her ear? Her heart was about to pump its way out of her chest—a swirl of delight and fear turning its beat erratic.
“And that, Kit Danby,” he said, his breath warm over her cheek, “is legit flirting.”
She sprang away, voice and words and heart sputtering. “Y-you . . . you’re awful!” She pushed him hard, and he let himself topple from the couch, laughing all the way down. “You’re—”
She didn’t even know what, so instead she just attacked him from above with a throw pillow, her own laughter bubbling.
“I’m sorry, it was just too easy.”
She hit him again, and he lifted his hands in surrender but didn’t stop laughing.
“I hope you wake up Charlie and Logan comes down to yell at you.”
“So worth it.” He climbed back onto the couch.
She tried to keep pummeling him with the pillow, but he plucked it from her hands with ease, cackling a dozen more apologies he clearly only half meant. Only when their laughter finally subsided did he flop back against the couch.
“Just for the record, I have no idea what color of eyes that social worker back in Ames had.”
Good. She didn’t voice it. Minutes drifted into an hour or maybe two as they talked more of the night away. She told him about her hopes to impress her father, lure him home. He regaled her with stories of famous military lawyers and the interesting cases they litigated. She filled him in on her travels while living in England.
Eventually, the clock over the fireplace told her today had turned into tomorrow. And the steady, heavy breathing beside her let her know Beckett was on his way to falling asleep. Or maybe already had.
For a moment that stretched with undeniable perfection, she just existed, resting in the cocoon of her best friend’s arm that had at some point stretched around her, the warmth of him beside her. Impulse glided in, heady and undeniable. She ignored every nudge of restraint, every warning bell in the back of her head, and leaned close to his ear.
“I wish I’d let you kiss me that night, Beckett Walker.”
“You didn’t have to drive me, you know.”
Logan steered his sedan into the right-hand lane. Tuesday-morning traffic zipped around them, sheer clouds coasting in and around the Chicago skyline. “I know I didn’t.” Logan lifted the travel mug Amelia had sent him out the door with. “But I wanted to.”
Beckett twisted open the lid of his own mug. The dark roast aroma wafted over him, and if he didn’t think he’d scorch his throat, he’d guzzle the entire thing. Grogginess clung to him like a second layer of clothing.
Too many hours awake with Kit.
And then too many hours awake without her.
“I wish I’d let you kiss me that night, Beckett Walker.”
She’d thought he was asleep. He nearly had been before she leaned over to whisper the words in his ear. What he hadn’t stopped asking himself since was, why in the world he hadn’t just opened his eyes and pulled her onto his lap and kissed her right then.
He took a long drink, sputtering when the coffee burned his tongue.
“I told you, that fancy coffeemaker of Amelia’s is insane. Gets the stuff so hot.” Logan flipped down his sun visor. “You have to wait, like, half an hour ’til it’s drinkable.”
Beckett took another drink anyway and then, at Logan’s raised eyebrows, pointed to his mouth. “Burned off all my taste buds with the first swig, so now it doesn’t matter.”
Logan took the exit and laughed. “Okay, moment of honesty?” He glanced over at Beckett, then back to the road. “I didn’t just offer to drive you because I’m the nicest older brother you’ve got.”
“I don’t know, Seth’s older than me and he’s like a brother, too, and—”
“Can it. I offered to drive you because I’m under orders from my wife to get the deets on you and Kit.”
“You didn’t seriously just say ‘deets,’ did you?”
“And you don’t seriously think you’re going to sidetrack this conversation, do you?”
The GPS on Logan’s phone cut in, giving orders to turn left and continue for three blocks. Then the only sound in the car was Logan tapping his steering wheel and Beckett twisting and untwisting the lid of his travel mug.
Until finally Logan cocked his head. “Well?”
“You told me to ‘can it.’”
“Fine, whatever. Just know Amelia’s back at the house working on Kit.”
Poor Kit. He should’ve known not to leave her alone.
“My wife and I both have newspapering in our blood, little brother. We follow stories until we have all the facts.”
“Yeah, we’re not a story, though.” Parking on both sides of the street narrowed Logan’s lane. Reminded Beckett of downtown Boston traffic. Claustrophobic.
“Don’t get me wrong. Amelia will be a hundred times subtler about it than me. But that’s only because she’s more polite. She doesn’t know Kit as well as I know you.”
“And what do you think you know?”
“I know we heard you both up last night. And even if we hadn’t, we would’ve seen the empty Tupperware and two forks in the sink.”
Beckett shifted against his too-tight seatbelt. “Way to go, Nancy Drew.”
“And I know you and Kit acted all kinds of awkward this morning. We’re talking, way past comical levels of awkward. I swear, she says ‘good morning’ to you and you’re tongue-tied for the first time in your life. You bump into her when you’re both going for the coffee and she suddenly matches Charlie’s bedroom walls.”
Pink. Bright pink.
The GPS cut in again, directed Logan west, noted the destination was on the right. Thank goodness for that. Freedom from Logan’s interrogation.
“Look, if you don’t want to talk about it—”
“I don’t.”
“Okay.” The tease had slackened from Logan’s tone. He pulled up in front of a glass-fronted building. Metallic lettering over the curved entrance spelled out Department of Human Services. “But if you ever do, I’m around, you know?”
Beckett stuck his travel mug in the cup holder in the console between them and reached for the door handle. Same thing he’d said to Raegan a couple weeks ago. “I know.”
And honestly, he did. For all his years of geographic distance from his family, even with all he’d missed, he’d never—not once—doubted that his siblings cared. Truth was, he’d always known all it’d take was a phone call, a text, and any one of them would appear on his doorstep in Boston.
He’d simply let the shame that drove him from Maple Valley hold him back. Too, the burrowed, lingering wound of missing his chance to say goodbye to Mom.
“I’ll go find a place to park and hang out. Just text me when I need to pick you up.”
Beckett nodded and opened the car door, stuck one leg out, paused. He looked back at Logan. “She’s my best friend. Even after all this time, she’s still my best friend.”
That was why he hadn’t opened his eyes last night. That was why he hadn’t made a move as she’d stood from the couch and carried the Tupperware and forks to the kitchen, then padded upstairs to Charlie’s bedroom.
“You don’t want to do anything to mess it up.”
“I’ve done it before.” And suddenly, Beckett had the urge to forget this errand that probably wouldn’t amount to anything anyway. Go find a park somewhere and sit on a bench and tell his big brother everything.
But a car honked behind them and he jerked. “Sorry. Text you when I’m done.”
He closed the car door before Logan could respond and angled around it. Focus. You’re here for Webster.
The kid who somehow reminded him of himself. Part cocky athlete. Part lost and uncertain.
Fluorescent white light spread through the open interior of the office building’s lobby. He stopped at a receptionist’s desk and asked for Kelly Polanski, the name Webster’s old social worker had given him.
Soon he was following an intern down a hallway. The building aged as they moved farther in, shiny marble flooring shifting to worn carpet, office doors crammed together like too many hangers in a closet. Eventually they stopped in front of a door with Kelly Polanski’s name in the placard beside it. The intern knocked, then stepped aside so Beckett could enter.
An ebony-skinned woman rose from behind a desk too big for the confined space. She reached one arm over the paper-covered surface to shake his hand. “Have a seat, Mr. Walker.”
He lowered into a chair with a ripped cushion and scratches in its wooden armrests. “Thanks so much for agreeing to meet me today. I know you said your schedule’s tight.” He’d called from the road yesterday, fingers crossed that she’d be willing to meet him on such short notice.
She had, but with obvious hesitation that clearly hadn’t waned in the hours since. “You want to talk about one of my current case files.”
“Uh, not the file, Ms. Polan—”
“Kelly.” She laced her fingers atop her desk.
“All right, Kelly. It’s not the file I’m concerned about, or even any specifics on where Amanda Britt is, but—”
“Mr. Walker—”
It was his turn to interrupt. “Beckett.”
“Beckett, I’m really not even comfortable talking about this girl by name. You explained the situation yesterday. And I am sympathetic to your . . .” She glanced at her screen. “To this Webster’s predicament. Assuming there’s nothing untoward in his desire to know where she is—”
Beckett’s grip on the armrests tightened. “Believe me, there’s not.”
“I want to believe you, of course, but I don’t even know you. And a person doesn’t work in child protective services for long before developing an unfortunate tendency toward skepticism. This is a teenage boy we’re talking about.”
The air in the room was fraught with restrained friction. The lawyer in him urged Beckett to argue, persuade this social worker to hear him out. But he couldn’t blame her for her position. He’d done his homework. The chances of trying to work the system or lawyer his way to any kind of information for Webster—slim to none.
No, his best bet was to draw on his years of experience settling disputes outside the courtroom. Except Kelly Polanski clearly wasn’t one for smooth talking or emotional swaying.
“Look, I’m not here to ask you to break any kind of confidentiality policy or rule. I’m not even here as a lawyer right now.” He absently traced the lone, long scratch in the wooden armrest with one finger, searching for the right words.
“That’s why I think you should consider being a lawyer, Beck.”
Mom’s voice. Somehow it stole into the room and settled over him.
“Because I’m always arguing with you?”
She’d laughed. “Because you’re great with words.”
“Kate’s the writer, Mom. And Logan.”
“They’re both great with the written word. You’re great with the spoken word. I’m not kidding, Beck, sometimes when you get all oratorical trying to talk your way out of a punishment, you almost convince me.”
The memory hovered in the tiny office, filling him with confidence—or maybe conviction—and he leaned forward. “I’m just here as the friend of a kid who wants to know someone he cares about is safe. That she’s all right.” He pulled a folder from the leather messenger bag he’d carried in. “This has copies of Webster’s class attendance, his grades—which could admittedly be better, but he’s working on them. It has a letter from his football coach, his adoptive parents, and a guy named Colton Greene—you might’ve heard of him, ex-NFL quarterback. He runs a nonprofit in Maple Valley and also mentors Webster. All attesting to his good behavior, work ethic, you name it.”
Kelly’s lips curved into an almost-grin. “I thought you said you weren’t here as a lawyer.”
Beckett leaned forward. “Amanda used to text Webster regularly and she hasn’t for a while. He’s worried. I’ve seen it firsthand.” And frankly, wondered about it. But Webster had assured him there wasn’t anything more going on than one friend concerned about another.
Kelly opened the folder, gaze skimming its contents. “Maybe she doesn’t want further contact.”
“If that’s the case, okay.” Beckett nodded. “Webster will have to learn to deal with that. I’m just asking you to check with her. And if she wants to let him know she’s all right, his email and phone number are in there.” He motioned to the folder in her hands.
She closed it. “Okay.”
“You’ll talk to her?”
“I’ll consider talking to her.”
It was as good as he was going to get, he could see it in her firm posture. But she hadn’t said no. And there’d been that half-smile. Reason enough to hope.