A Cop's Honor

“I’m a good parent, Brandon. I do my best to provide for my children. I never leave them unsupervised, and I send them to the best after-school program I can afford. But I saw a friend who was an excellent parent lose custody of her children when her ex-husband manufactured things. What he accused her of wasn’t true, but it cast enough doubt for her to end up with supervised visitation only. Like the Leiths, he’s loaded and connected, and like me, my friend doesn’t have the money to fight. I’m trying to give the Leiths as much access to the grandchildren as I can to keep them happy, but I’m afraid of what Rick’s mom can do with the ammunition Mason is unwittingly giving her.”

The fear in her eyes was genuine, and he understood her concern. He’d seen exactly what she described—great parents losing custody. “Hannah, I witnessed the way you ‘mothered’ for your first five years of parenthood. If that hasn’t changed, there’s no way you could be considered a bad parent.”

“Thank you for saying that. But I can’t risk it. In her grief Mrs. Leith doesn’t always...think rationally. And her friends have clout. I don’t.”

Being a single parent with no backup had to be hard. His family was close. He had his mom and dad, two sisters and two brothers-in-law he could call on at any time for anything. Not that he had ever asked for help, but he knew they’d be there for him if he did—the same way he’d be there for them. No questions asked. He would have been that for Hannah and her kids—if she had let him. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Which brought him back to the problem at hand.

“Was Mason running away?”

“He claims he was going to study with a friend.”

“But you don’t believe him?”

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth and took another one of those breast-swelling breaths. He jacked his gaze north. “No. It was an hour after bedtime. Mason doesn’t make friends easily. And he refuses to tell me this supposed one’s name or where he lives. I’ve asked his teachers, and none know of any new friends he’s made.”

Rick hadn’t made friends easily, either. He’d been a late-in-life, surprise baby. The Leiths hadn’t known what to do with the child they’d brought home from the hospital or how to interact with the brilliant boy he’d become. They’d raised him to be a little adult. Seen and not heard and all that crap.

And then Brandon had come along. He’d intervened on the first day of second grade when one of the fifth graders on the bus had tried to bully the prissy new kid on their route—Rick. Brandon had given the bully a bloody nose and gained a loyal friend. Rick had become Brandon’s sidekick. He’d visited the Martins’ orchard every time Rick’s workaholic parents had let him. Out in the peach groves Rick had learned how to be a kid, how to climb trees, get dirty and make noise—all the stuff he wasn’t allowed to do at home. And Brandon had made sure his geeky buddy learned to defend himself.

Rick should have been here to teach those same lessons to his son. But he wasn’t. And if Brandon had done things differently that day—He pushed aside the familiar weight settling on his chest.

“I’d offer to speak to the Leiths for you, but I’m not high on their good list, either.” They blamed Brandon for turning their brilliant son away from a safe and lucrative, white-collar law career toward a dangerous, low-paying blue-collar law enforcement job. Mrs. Leith had said that if not for Brandon, her son would have gone to college and graduate school and he’d still be alive.

“I don’t think they like many people. But they do love my children...in their own peculiar way.”

“What do you want me to do, Hannah?”

“I need you to talk to Mason—unofficially, of course—and see if you can figure out what’s going on.”

Brandon leaned back. Here it was. The opportunity to fulfill his promise to Rick—to watch out for Rick’s family. But he was ill-equipped for the job. What if he failed? “Hannah, I know almost nothing about kids.”

“You’re my son’s godfather. You have to help.”

Guilt torqued through him. He’d been a lousy godparent. Out of respect for Hannah he’d stayed out of sight and kept tabs on Rick’s family from a distance. “How?”

“Come to dinner tomorrow—unless you have a date—and see if you can figure out what’s going on with him.”

The desperation in her face hit him hard—but not as hard as the jab about a date. Saturday night, and he’d be home alone. Again. He’d yet to find a woman he found more interesting than work. Sure, he dated. But not often. He was tired of the whole game. He met a woman. She pretended to be someone she wasn’t and swore she didn’t mind the danger of his job and didn’t want kids. Then her true colors seeped through.

“Please, Brandon.”

There was probably nothing wrong with the boy that some tough love wouldn’t cure. “I’ll be there.”

He’d never live up to the gratitude in her eyes. But he had to at least try. He owed Rick that much.

* * *

HANNAH’S GARAGE GUTTER was sagging again. Brandon cursed and slowed his truck a hundred yards from the house Saturday evening. The fascia board behind the gutter, and possibly one or more rafters, would have to be replaced, but that meant removing the old ones, painting the new ones and getting it all reassembled without getting caught.

After Hannah had ordered him to stay away from her and her family and refused multiple offers of help from other officers from SLED, Brandon had covertly organized a team of Rick’s coworkers. He and the guys were limited to working the one weekend a month when Hannah and the kids went out of town. That made complicated, multistep projects difficult to complete without getting caught.

Their clandestine activities were aided by the fact that her three-acre lot was heavily wooded, concealing the house on all sides from her neighbors, and those neighbors were the kind who minded their own business.

Privacy had been Rick’s primary reason for choosing the fixer-upper in an older area, although he had planned to clear out more trees to make a bigger lawn for the kids to play on. But he hadn’t lived long enough to finish that project or many of the others on his long list. Brandon kept the small patch of grass in the front yard weeded and fertilized, but he couldn’t do much more without revealing the team’s secret work.

He parked beneath the basketball goal “Santa” had left last Christmas then scanned the house as he traversed the walk, noting the white clapboard siding was still clean from the last pressure washing, and the shutters still looked good, too. He climbed the stairs to the small porch and pushed the button. A bell chimed inside. Seconds later the door opened. A miniature version of Hannah with big blue eyes—Rick’s eyes—stared up at him and regret gnawed his gut. Rick would never get to see how much his baby girl had grown.

The heavy humid air clogged Brandon’s throat. He cleared it. “Hello, Belle. I’m Brandon. Your mom’s expecting me.”

A rustle of movement behind her preceded Hannah’s appearance. She looked flustered. Color tinted her cheeks and upper chest. She opened the door wider, revealing an outfit identical to her daughter’s short denim skirt, pink T-shirt and sparkly sandals. But Hannah wasn’t shaped like a six-year-old. Her curves rounded out her clothing nicely, and her legs—

Eyes north, dumbass. “Hey.”

“Hi. Belle, Officer Martin is joining us for dinner. He’s the one you set the extra plate for.”

“Did you know my daddy? He was an occifer, too.”

“Your dad was my best friend. We grew up together. We met when we were just a little older than you.”

“I have a best friend. Her name is Sydney. She sits beside me at school. Mommy packs extra snacks for Sydney because her family can’t ’ford them and the Bible says we hafta share with those less fort’nate.”

He—a master interrogator—had no idea what to say. He glanced at Hannah. Pride and love for her daughter glistened in her eyes. “That’s uh...nice,” was 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.

Chapter Two

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 my house, if you eat, you clean.” He followed her into the galley-style kitchen and set his load in the sink.

She hadn’t had a man in this room since Rick’s death. And even then, preparing the meal and cleaning up afterward had been her job while Rick had played with the children or watched TV. Brandon’s shoulders were broader than Rick’s had been, and he took up more space. His presence made her feel claustrophobic in the narrow area between the counters.

Brandon rinsed a dish and offered it to her. She jumped into action. Her hip bumped his as she bent to open the dishwasher, and her pulse blipped erratically. Nerves over what his take on Mason’s attitude might be. That was all it was. She was certain.

“Brandon, I’m sorry, but until I renovate this kitchen there’s only room for one of us in here, so...if you don’t mind...”

He scanned the room. “I forgot you wanted to knock out some walls.”

“Just that one.” She pointed to the wall dividing the den and kitchen.

“Did Rick ever get that structural engineer’s report he talked about?”

“Yes, but kitchens are expensive projects, so it’s pretty far down the list.” And now it was off it completely because one salary would never be enough to cover the cost.

“Could I see the report?”

She sighed. If it would get him out of the way, she’d give it to him. Crossing to the built-in desk, which she rarely used, she opened the file drawer, flipped through the folders and extracted the file.

“You’re still organized, I see.”

“Yes. Here you go.”

“Thanks. I’ll read it after I take a look at the computer.”

Anxiety burned in her chest. “You won’t find anything. Like I told you, I have all kinds of parental controls on it, and—”

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about.” He retrieved the laptop from the den and brought it to the kitchen table then pushed a button and the machine hummed to life. “Do each of you have separate log-ins?”

“Yes. That way the programs we use are on the desktop and my bill paying is out of the kids’ reach.”

“Do you ever sign in as Mason to see which sites he visits?”

“No. I trust him.” She didn’t need to see Brandon’s lips compressing to know he didn’t like her answer—especially given she’d demanded his help. “I don’t know his password.”

“No problem.” Long fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard.

She rinsed the remaining dishes and loaded the dishwasher, trying hard to ignore him clicking away. What if he found something? If she confronted Mason with it he’d know she’d gone behind his back and invaded his privacy. How would he react? The way her mother had? She tamped down the fear. Brandon wouldn’t find anything on the computer. She was too proactive for that.

“I’m in,” Brandon stated.

She stilled, water dripping from her hands into the sink. “How did you get in without his password?”

“I signed in as the administrator.” He looked back at the screen then frowned. “Mason’s history has been deleted. Did you show him how to do that?”

Her anxiety level climbed. “No. Maybe the computer is set to automatically delete the browsing history?”

Click. Click. Click. “His account is.” More taps. “Neither yours nor Belle’s is. It’s not the computer’s default. If you didn’t set it up this way, then Mason did.”

“But why...?”

“Exactly.”

Acid burned the base of her esophagus. She dried her hands. “I...could ask him.”

But if she did, then he’d know she was spying on him. And spying on someone was a violation of trust that couldn’t be forgiven or forgotten.

“You think he’d tell you the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Your hesitation says differently. Hannah, he’s a kid doing something he wants hidden. Let me talk to him.”

“No! I don’t want you interrogating him like a criminal. He’s a little boy.”

His jaw shifted. “Then let me take the computer with me so that I can find out what sites he’s been visiting. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

“That’s spying.”

“That’s parenting. If you want to know what’s driving his behavior and you won’t let me take the computer, then at least let me install some software that’ll track his activity. He’ll never know it’s there.”

Fear tightened her chest. “I’m not violating his trust like that.”

He shut down the computer, set it aside and stood. In three strides he was by her side. Close. Too close. She had to tip back her head to look at him. He wasn’t as tall as Rick, but he was...imposing in his breadth. Dark evening stubble shadowed his jaw and his eyes were...intent. She shuffled backward and nearly tripped over the open dishwasher door.

He reached out, but she caught herself and held up her hands before he made contact. “I’m fine.”

“Hannah, I can’t help you if you won’t let me. Mason is probably nothing more than a curious boy looking at porn, and he’s picked up some of the language. But it could be more. And software is the easiest way to find out what’s going on.”

“You’re just paranoid because of your job chasing cyber criminals. But my son isn’t a criminal.” Then another thought dried her mouth. “He won’t be able to tell you logged in as him, will he?”

“No. Think about a tracking program. It’s your best bet.”

“No software. I want you to promise me you won’t do anything to violate his trust.”

Frustration radiated from him, pleating his brows and making his shoulder muscles bunch. “Hannah, we’ve covered this.”

“Promise me, Brandon. I want Mason to feel he can come to me with anything, and if I go behind his back he won’t feel that way.” She saw opposition in his face. “If you can’t make that promise, then leave and don’t come back. I have enough problems with the Leiths trying to undermine me. I don’t need you doing the same.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Fine, I agree. But only as long as I don’t think he’s in danger or a crime’s being committed. If I suspect either of those, then I’ll do whatever it takes to keep your son safe. I owe Rick that.”

Mason wasn’t committing a crime. As his mother, she’d know if he was. Brandon’s half promise wasn’t the unconditional one she wanted, but it would have to do. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. And while I’m here I’m going to check out the gutter over your garage. It’s sagging and it needs to be repaired before you have water damage.”

He swung around and left the kitchen before she could protest. The old adage “give ’em an inch and they’ll take a mile” came to mind. She’d invited Brandon back into her life. She hoped she didn’t regret it.

* * *

BRANDON RETURNED HIS ladder to the bed of his truck on Sunday morning. He had come over early to work on Hannah’s gutter. As he’d suspected, the gutter repair was going to involve more than hammering a couple of nails. Good thing he’d gone ahead and brought the necessary materials.

He bent to check his face in the side mirror and winced. The mug reflected back at him wouldn’t win any beauty contests. His right eye was swollen almost shut, his upper lip looked ready to burst and an assortment of other bulges puffed out his cheeks and chin. He gingerly touched the worst spot beneath his eye and swore. It hurt. Hell, his whole face hurt. But a promise was a promise. He hoped he didn’t scare Belle.

He checked his watch. Hannah should be home from church any minute. As if on cue, her minivan came up the driveway. Hannah parked outside the garage. Mason bailed out of the side door, scowled in Brandon’s direction then did a double take and smirked. “How bad does the other guy look?”

The kid thought he’d been in a fight. He decided to play along. “There were about fifty of them. And I’m still standing.”

The boy’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.

Hannah stopped as she rounded the hood, a horrified look on her face. A flowery sleeveless dress fluttered above her knees, displaying long, tanned legs. She looked good. Really good. He squashed that thought and noted that Belle wore an identical dress.

“Fifty yellow jackets,” he elaborated. “They nest in the ground. I ran over their hole this morning with my lawn mower.”

Belle tugged his hand and pointed at his face. “Does it hurt?”

He wasn’t going to lie. “Yeah. But not as bad as it looks.”

Hannah moved closer, concern puckering her forehead. “Have you removed the stingers?”

“The ones I could reach.”

“You have more?”

“Some of the bast—buggers got in my shirt.”

“Have you taken an antihistamine or put anything on the wounds?”

“I didn’t have anything but antiseptic.”

“I have a first-aid kit. Come inside. I’ll fix you up then you can go home.”

“I promised to help paint, and I don’t break promises.” Except for the one he’d made to Rick. But he was righting that now. Hannah had reopened the door. He wouldn’t let her close it again.

“I don’t think you should exert yourself.”

“I’m fine, Hannah. I’m not allergic. Just ugly.”

“Did you pour gas in the hole and set it on fire?” Mason asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Was Mason a firebug? That would suggest even bigger problems. “No. You have to do night ops to kill yellow jackets.”

“How come?”

“Yellow jackets return to their nest at dusk. After dark they can’t see as well and they’re less likely to attack. I’ll hit all of them at once with chemicals that’ll fog them to death.”

“Can I watch?”

Bloodthirsty little rascal.

“No,” Hannah replied before Brandon could. “It’s a school night.” Ignoring Mason’s “Moooom,” she swung her gaze to Brandon. “Come inside.” He followed her in. “Wait in the den. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Mason, stay with Brandon and watch for...anything unusual. Belle, put on the painting clothes I laid out for you.” Hannah left. Two sets of footsteps ascended the stairs.