Page 7 of Ultimate Justice

Because she hadn’t laughed—not once—in over three years.

Chapter Three

“Thank you, Ms. Foxe,” Evan said to Marlie, wondering what had put such a wary look on her pretty face.

“Happy to help,” she answered tightly.

Evan arched a brow. Liar. The woman looked anything but happy.

Her knuckles were white where she had her long blond braid in a death grip, and the smooth skin over her carotid pulsed rapidly. She shot what he could swear was a panicked look at the door. Bottom line…Marlie Foxe looked ready to bolt faster than a deer on opening day of hunting season.

Her deep blue gaze met his, and he was struck by the sad, haunted look in hers. He’d seen that look. It was the same one he’d seen in the mirror on his own face and those of his parents in the days and months after Gracie disappeared. He wondered if it would ever stop.

Now, for the first time in twenty-four years, he was, potentially, on the verge of discovering the answer to his family’s burning question: what happened to their daughter, his sister?

If only he wasn’t exhausted. Make that totally beat to shit. He’d barely slept, and then only because he’d had to.

In the two days he’d been waiting to interview Noah, he’d fully briefed his SAIC—Special Agent in Charge—the FBI director via Zoom, the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Denver, gotten an arrest warrant for Francis Manello and served another search warrant at the man’s house. He and a team of agents had tossed the house from top to bottom. Forensics was dumping every scrap of information on Manello’s computer, but all Evan could think about was that Polaroid. He still couldn’t believe it, but it was her—Gracie—wearing the same pink shirt she’d had on the last time he’d seen her. Guilt squeezed his heart tighter than a bank vault door.

Focus, dammit! Focus!

“Blue, come.” He hitched his head to the dog who’d been his partner for more than four years.

As Blue trotted to the bed, Evan pointed, and his dog situated himself between Marlie and the bed and rested his head on the edge of the mattress. Despite Blue’s size, Marlie didn’t cringe or back away.

“Can I pet him?” Noah looked at Evan expectantly.

“You bet. That’s what I brought him for.” Pretty much every kid Noah’s age wanted a dog. A dog’s attention and comfort were great for improving emotional health, especially after a traumatic experience. The only thing necessary was for the dog to be gentle and friendly, which Blue was. Except when hunting down a homicidal felon.

It wasn’t quite a smile, but the corners of Marlie’s pink, full lips lifted a fraction as she watched Noah pet Blue. She had the most interesting face he’d ever seen. Heart-shaped. Yet it was her eyes that drew him in. Eyes were the windows to the soul, and he wondered about hers.

“He likes having his ears stroked,” Evan said, casting a glance over his shoulder. The good doctor, who looked eerily like an undertaker, would be back soon with those extra chairs. Noah didn’t like the man. Getting him out the door, even for a few minutes, seemed like a stellar idea.

Blue leaned into the boy’s hand and groaned like he’d just scarfed down a meaty T-bone. The deep rumble in the back of Blue’s throat made Noah giggle. He hadn’t quite reached adolescence and still had the high-pitched voice of youth.

“Do you like dogs?” he asked, taking the first step in his forensic interview of the boy: establishing rapport.

He nodded.

In the interest of not towering over the bed, Evan sat in the vacant chair, leaving Kinnemara, the FBI’s Office for Victim Assistance advocate, standing quietly by the door.

Normally, he’d approach any interview with methodical calm, but that Polaroid of his sister made him feel like a powder keg with a little fuse. He wanted to trash protocol and dive right in. With children, rushing in too quickly could be disastrous. “Did you ever have a dog before?”

Noah shook his head, his attention still focused on Blue. “I wanted one, but Sheila and Mike—my foster parents—wouldn’t let me.”

No surprise there. Noah Lund’s background check had included his former foster parents. Sheila and Mike Hamilton had been too busy peddling drugs out their back door to care about anyone else. He’d bet they’d only taken Noah in to get state money for fostering a child. The state’s screening process was seriously flawed. More like, seriously sucked.

Evan caught Marlie scrutinizing him. The haunted look in her eyes had been replaced by something else. Suspicion. Still drilling him with those piercing blue eyes, she rested a hand on Noah’s shoulder, telling him something else—North Metro’s custodian was protective of the boy. Somehow, in the span of only two days, they’d formed a bond, one he needed to be cautious of. Perhaps, take advantage of.

“Do you like baseball?” The kid’s pjs were baseball-themed.

“Yeah.” Noah kept petting Blue.

“Me too. I played in school.”

Finally, the boy looked up. “What position?”

“Centerfield. You?”