Buch lesen: «Broken Lullaby»
Broken Lullaby
Pamela Tracy
MILLS & BOON
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To Patricia Osback—my sister-in-law, a terrific
writer, a dedicated mother and a valued friend—
who took me to the small town that became Broken
Bones in my imagination and spawned three books.
Thank you for answering all my questions. And to
Auralie Stegall—my aunt, a terrific keeper of family
memories—who welcomed me to the family and
introduced me to the Osback history.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ONE
Four days, eight hours, twenty-two minutes.
That’s how long it had been since Mitch Williams pulled the trigger and killed a man.
Two days, five hours, twelve minutes.
That’s how long Mitch had been holed up in the isolated cabin he’d purchased on a whim almost six months ago. Thanks to the locale, he hadn’t had any visitors.
He didn’t want any visitors.
But he had one now.
The whrrr of an engine and the crunch of tires had left the road and headed up Mitch’s drive. He did what he always did when he heard an unexpected noise. He checked to make sure his gun was nearby. Then, he got mad at himself.
He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t treated his gun the way he treated his wallet and watch—as items to always have either on his person or nearby. His watch was on his wrist. His wallet was on the nightstand by the bed. His gun? His gun was in Phoenix, tagged as evidence in an officer-involved shooting.
He was the officer. He’d done the shooting.
And now he was on administrative leave that the attorney general, Melody Griffin-Smith, kept referring to as a much needed vacation. Unfortunately, Mitch kept hearing the unspoken word permanent before the spoken word vacation.
He slowly stood, leaving the safety of the all-terrain vehicle he’d been tinkering with. Climbing from an old blue truck was one of the few people who just might be able to cajole him out of his funk. If anyone knew about injustice, it was Eric Santellis. Eric had been born into a major crime family, yet managed to turn into one of the most self-assured, content Christian men Mitch had ever encountered—even after serving years in a penitentiary for a crime he hadn’t committed.
Mitch set down his wrench, wiped grease from his fingers and grinned for the first time in days—four days, eight hours and thirty-six minutes.
“I wondered if you’d be here. I still can’t believe you bought this place!” Eric yelled out.
“And I can’t believe you didn’t stop me.”
“Stop you? I think it’s great. A place in the wild is what you need. Especially now. I heard what happened. Man, I—”
Mitch held up a hand. “I’m not at liberty to talk about it.”
Eric nodded and studied the cabin once again. “So, what have you done to the place so far?”
“Not a thing. I think the old sheriff hired a dump truck to come load everything up and cart it off. There’s nothing left.”
“Good thing. My sister used to complain about what a mess this place was.” Eric checked his watch. “She’s due to arrive any time.”
Mitch raised an eyebrow. “You found Mary?”
Eric nodded. “The private detective called last week. He found her in Florida. I’ve spoken to her twice now.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her I’d help her, told her that things were different now, told her both God and I loved her.”
It must have been quite a phone call. Mitch didn’t know Mary Graham personally, but if she were a typical career criminal’s wife, not to mention the typical daughter of a local crime lord, she’d be a woman who didn’t trust anybody easily.
Including her brother Eric or God. “She believed you?”
“She says being on the run isn’t healthy for Justin. He isn’t anywhere long enough to make friends. I’ve already spoken with her caseworker. It won’t be easy, but Mary has a few things on her side.”
Mitch managed to keep his expression neutral. He had no sympathy for wives, husbands, mothers, fathers or even children who helped keep criminals in business and on the street. Yes, Eric had turned out to be different than Mitch had expected, but his sister had two strikes against her: not only was she the daughter of a criminal, but also the wife—correction, widow—of one. To Mitch’s way of thinking, Mary probably enjoyed the roles and money that came with being Yano’s daughter and Eddie’s wife.
“I know what you’re thinking, but I think you are wrong about my sister. I’m asking you as a friend, since your cabin is right next door to where she’ll be staying, to keep an eye on her.” Eric’s eyes bore holes into Mitch. “This might be her only chance to make good. Maybe she turned a blind eye to some things that she shouldn’t have, but remember, she was trained from birth. And even with that type of upraising, she never acted as a messenger or go-between. Not for our father, not for her husband. I think we can prove that she can’t be charged with mafia association or as an accomplice to any of Eddie’s dealings. That will leave just the child-endangerment issue and aggravated assault for the way she clocked Eddie after Justin ended up in the hospital. I think that I’ll be able to get her probation or even a suspended sentence. What do you think?”
“You don’t want to know what I think.”
“You’re too hard, Mitch. Not everyone is like you. Will you come with me to meet her, maybe give her a hand with a few boxes so you two get off on the right foot?”
Mitch nodded, then laughed and shook his head. “She’s going to hate living next door to me.”
Eric laughed. “Got that right. You couldn’t possibly be any more establishment.”
“And proud of it.”
He was proud of it and always had been, ever since the first time he’d read about Eliot Ness and then later watched all the cop shows his mother would allow. And that was before his sister disappeared. After that, he’d known exactly what he wanted to do with his life—find missing people. He’d started as a beat cop, finally worked his way to detective, and segued into Internal Affairs. He found lots of missing people; most of them didn’t want to be found.
He turned his attention back to his friend. “Where’s your wife? She’s a much better-looking officer to hang around with than me.”
Eric sobered. “Ruth would have come, but she’s working on a missing baby.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “You remember José Santos?”
“Sure, great guy, good cop. He died last year after pulling over a kid who’d stolen a car. Kid had a gun.”
“His family is still having a hard time dealing with it. His sixteen-year-old daughter, Angelina, has a little boy now.”
“So young,” Mitch murmured.
“It’s her baby that’s missing. Sunday she took her son to a festival in town. Somebody snatched him.”
Sunday. Mitch felt prickles up and down his spine. On Sunday, while he was busy shooting a fellow police officer, here in small-town America somebody was stealing a baby. “What do you have there?” Mitch sat down next to Eric and reached for the piece of paper.
“It’s a drawing. Right now we’re calling her a person of interest. She’d approached Angelina at the festival and touched the baby. Angelina thought she was just admiring little José. When José was taken, Angelina thought again.”
The sketch was of a young Hispanic woman, probably no more than eighteen. Her dark hair spilled past her shoulders. Her cheekbones and the lines of her chin were too thin. Her eyes radiated sadness. There was nothing special about her except…
Suddenly, he remembered. Six months ago, an illegal crossing gone wrong near Yuma cost a young man his life. He was shot while trying to cross the border by a crooked border patrol officer.
Mitch had seen a photo of a girl that the dead man carried in his pocket.
Same girl.
Mary Graham winced as the U-Haul bounced over the uneven pavement of the Santellis Used Car Lot. It was all hers now: every broken window, every cracked sidewalk, every shattered dream.
“Justin, we’re here.” She tapped her son’s shoulder and removed one of the earbuds that ran from his ever-present iPod into the sides of his head.
“That’s nice.” Justin shoved the earbud back in. He was still punishing her for picking up their lives and moving yet again.
After three years on the run, she thought it would feel good to come back to Gila City and Broken Bones, Arizona, the place she had grown up—the place she used to call home.
Mary climbed out of the car and looked around.
She should be excited that she and Justin could settle down again in a place with family.
She wasn’t.
Not with her family.
As Mary surveyed the ramshackle car lot, she pictured herself standing in that same spot three years before—the day her estranged husband, Eddie, had been led away in handcuffs and her life in Arizona had ended. From the looks of things, the decades-old family car business had ended that day, too.
The grimace on her son’s face as he joined her broke Mary’s reverie.
“This is it?” Justin, way too discerning for an eleven-year-old, muttered after getting a good look at his mother’s inheritance. “You’re kidding. Dad really used to work here?”
Like something out of a low-budget 1950s horror flick, the one-level main building that rose out of the dusty parking lot was dingy-white, almost gray, with a large bay behind it where cars were once repaired. By the street, an oversized sign still had enough pitiful letters for Mary to make out the words: S-ntel-s Us-d Ca-Lot.
Looking at Justin in this setting from her past made her realize again how much he looked like Eddie, the Eddie she had at one time loved, the Eddie who had broken her trust and her heart. She softly said, “He actually managed the place.”
“When?”
“From the time you were a baby. Your father took over the business two years before you were born and ran it until just a few years ago…”
“You mean until I went in the hospital and he got arrested,” Justin stated quietly as he looked around. “Until we left Phoenix,” he added.
The lot took up a full acre of land in a prime location just off the Interstate. According to the estate executor, the deserted gas station next door was also part of her inheritance.
“Did it look like this when Dad worked here?”
“Oh, no. Your father kept it up.”
And Eddie had. Truthfully, he hadn’t sold many cars, but the place had somehow managed to look like a semisuccessful business, not just a front for her father and brothers’ criminal activities.
Justin tried to look impressed, wanting no doubt to believe he could be proud of something his dad had done. Mary understood; she had felt the same way about her own father once.
As if he could read her mind, Justin asked, “Did Grandpa work here, too?”
The very thought made Mary want to chuckle. Of the great line of Santellises, Yano Santellis had been the most successful of all. Well, if you thought that having a finger in just about every till in Gila City made you a success, that is. Her dad was happy to skim most of the profit from the dirty dealings the used car lot fronted, but seldom got his own hands dirty.
In Mary’s eyes, her father was neither successful nor great. And now the great Yano was a mere shadow of his former self, Alzheimer’s had claimed his mind. Mary finally shook her head in response to Justin. “Grandpa owned it.”
Except that wasn’t true. Mary owned it. And had for some time, according to the will her grandfather left behind. Conveniently, Eddie hadn’t passed that information along. She’d only discovered it when the detective her brother hired had tracked her down a few weeks ago. “Your grandfather was here a lot, but he hired others to actually work it.”
“Dad worked for him?”
“Yes.”
“Will I get to help you fix this place up?” Justin frowned.
“Probably.”
Justin made a face that Mary pretended not to notice. No matter what the lot looked like now, it would be good for him to be part of something that belonged to the two of them, because nothing had belonged to them for a long time. She’d made the decision to go into hiding when Eddie was arrested, knowing she could be charged as an accomplice in whatever crimes he had committed and that Justin might be taken from her if social workers believed that her family connections had put him in danger.
After all, she was Eddie Graham’s wife, even if they had been separated for years. If she had been arrested, too, what would have become of her son? Justin had been hospitalized after swallowing some pills that he had mistaken for candy—pills that Eddie had stashed in the back of his car when he came for a visitation.
On that awful day, Mary never left Justin’s side, not even as she heard the nurse say she was being reported to social services, not when she heard the words protective custody, not when she heard the term aggravated assault and not even when the photographer started snapping pictures right in the hospital room to start the criminal investigation.
Right there in the hospital that day, a tightness gripped her heart as she realized what she’d allowed to happen, what she’d become—way too many years ago. She was as much to blame as Eddie because she knew. She knew!
The only way she could live with herself was to get Justin away from the life she’d always known and to make a change. That meant getting away from not only her husband but also her family. Rather than wait for the fallout, she ran. She’d do anything to keep her son safe and away from the life the rest of her family had chosen.
She and Justin had spent the past three years moving to a new place every time Mary feared someone was watching. He’d heard more “We’ll see” and “Not this time” putoffs than a kid deserved.
He headed toward the abandoned bay. Mary let him go. He was pushing for space and she needed to let him have some. Once again, everything in his life had changed. But this time, they were home. At least, she hoped it could be home again.
“Maybe coming back was a mistake, but I just couldn’t run anymore,” Mary whispered to the wind.
The wind didn’t dispute her; a lone tumbleweed offered no advice.
Justin disappeared around a corner, and Mary wished she could disappear, too. Instead, she stoically marched toward the decaying office building, stuck her key in the knob and turned.
The door still squeaked when you opened it. The floor still had ugly green-speckled tile and sloped a bit. The whole place smelled like dust and neglect. When Eddie managed it, it had smelled like exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke and tension.
At least the tension was gone.
“I’ve made so many mistakes,” she whispered into the stale air. And it sounded like she got an answering moan. Mary stepped back in surprise, then peered into the door of Eddie’s former office.
At first, Mary thought the prone figure wrapped in an aged blanket surrounded by years of grime and neglect was dead. Then, it rolled over and sat up.
Mary screamed.
TWO
The wide-eyed young woman in the blanket struggled to sit up, then fell back and looked ready to cry. Now that her heart had dropped back into her chest, Mary could see she was no more than a girl, a teenager, really, with matted black hair.
“Are you hurt? Do you need me to call someone?” Mary did not need any complications. Not on her first day back to the Gila City and Broken Bones area. She’d wanted to slide in under the radar. A girl in a blanket hiding out in Mary’s abandoned car lot didn’t bode well at all.
The girl responded with a blank stare.
“Are you well enough to move?”
Still no answer. Mary had grown up around some of the best con artists in the world, namely her father, brothers and her late husband, and she knew when someone was playing her. She hadn’t liked the game then; she didn’t like it now. She reached into her purse for her cell phone and said, “I only speak English. What a pity. I guess I’ll have to call the police.”
The girl finally sat up. She hardly weighed anything and her torn and dirty clothing looked two sizes too big. Mary swallowed.
She punched numbers into her cell phone and waited. The girl didn’t have to know that the numbers she’d dialed were only to check her voice mail.
“No, please,” came the response in halting but clear English. “I will leave.”
Mary flipped her phone shut. Truthfully, she was hoping to avoid the police at all cost, but now what was she going to do?
The girl slowly got to her feet, took two steps, stumbled, fell and passed out cold. This was definitely not the new beginning in Arizona Mary had hoped for, but maybe it was the beginning she deserved.
Bending down next to the girl, Mary said gently, “I’m right here.” There was no response. Taking a breath, Mary reached for an arm. The girl was heavier than she looked but Mary was able to drag her into the main room and lay her on the dusty couch. Still, the girl remained unconscious.
“Who are you?” Mary whispered, “And what am I going to do with you?”
The girl still didn’t stir.
Justin chose that moment to stomp in. His unruly hair flopping over his sweaty brow; he stopped at the door. In his hand, he held up what looked like a tailpipe. “I thought I heard a scream. Are you okay, Mom?” When Mary nodded, he threw the pipe back out the door. “This place is a mess. Are you sure we want it?”
“I’m sure.”
“Are we leaving now to meet Uncle Eric?”
“I don’t think Eric is our main concern anymore. But, you’re right. We need to get moving and I need your help.”
Looking suspicious, Justin slowly moved from the door to the desk. Now he could see the girl lying on the rundown couch. “Wow! Who’s she?”
“I don’t know. I found her in the back room and—” Before Mary could say another word, Justin interrupted.
“Is she dead?”
“No!”
Justin looked intrigued. “Are you sure?”
Great. Not only did her kid assume the worst, but he did it in an offhand manner. Shades of her brothers? Too much television? Mary wasn’t sure, but it bothered her. “She’s not dead. She just fainted.”
Justin nodded, managing to look both interested and unfazed.
“Go out to the car and get me a bottled water,” Mary finally said. “And grab something for her to eat.”
The water woke the girl up, the small bag of chips lasted about thirty seconds and the sight of Justin made her cry.
“What did I do?” Justin asked.
“Nothing, she probably just needs a good cry.”
The girl hiccuped and asked, “Are police coming?”
“I didn’t call them,” Mary said.
The girl relaxed a bit and stared at Justin. “Your brother?”
“Oh, I like you!” Mary exclaimed. “No, this is my son.”
“Son?” The girl seemed to draw into herself. This time, when the tears flowed, it didn’t look like they’d stop anytime soon. They certainly showed no sign of ceasing while Justin and Mary finally helped her to her feet and propelled her toward the door and out to the car. She went willingly into the backseat and curled up in a fetal position.
Justin raised his eyebrows, glanced at his mother and shrugged. It was actually refreshing. For the first time in days Justin wasn’t bemoaning the move to Broken Bones, Arizona.
For her part, the girl in the back was busy talking to God in Spanish. Mary figured part of the prayer had to do with the way she backed up the car with the U-Haul attached. The prayer was enough to keep the bud out of Justin’s ear and inspire curious looks that might mean actual conversation.
“What are we going to do with her, Mom?” Justin positioned himself so he could stare at their passenger.
“Take her to the cabin, feed her, clean her up and,” Mary switched to a fake German accent, “ve haf vays to make her tock.”
Justin chuckled and looked back at the girl. She struggled to a sitting position as Justin asked, “Do you have a name?”
“Alma.”
Trust Justin to ask a simple question and get a simple answer. Mary felt relieved. “Well, Alma, now that you’re talking, why don’t you tell us where we can take you? What you were doing at the car lot?”
Alma didn’t answer. Obviously Mary hadn’t mastered asking “simple” questions. “Alma?” Justin said to himself. “I’ve never heard of that name.”
Alma answered in flawless English. “I am named after my grandmother.”
“Are you from Mexico?”
“Yes.”
“When did you move here?”
“Maybe it has been a week.”
Justin was on a roll. “We just got here today. Mom says I’ll get to go to school and play sports. Baseball’s my favor—”
Mary butted in. “Are you homeless? Are you hiding from someone?”
No answer.
“I can help,” Mary said softly.
“Yeah,” Justin agreed. “We’re real good at hiding.”
Alma frowned. “I am hiding. From…No. I’m looking for my husband and—”
“Husband?” Mary interrupted. Yikes! The girl barely looked old enough to be past Barbie dolls and high school pep rallies. “Where is your husband?” Mary asked. “Do you need me to call him?”
“I think he’s dead.” The words were soft and they tore at Mary’s heart because she could hear the sorrow infused in them.
“Oh,” Justin said. “My dad’s dead, too. He died just a few years ago.”
“Leandro has been gone six months.” Alma choked up and then continued, “He was coming here.”
Justin asked the question before Mary could. “What do you mean gone? Is he dead or just missing?”
“He is missing, but I know he is dead or he would come for me.”
“My dad’s really dead.” Just like that Justin bought into the missing equals dead explanation. Well, in their world, at one time, missing meant dead, but not anymore. After all, Mary had mastered the art of “missing” without dying. Her brother Kenny was missing, yet Mary didn’t think of him as dead. She also never brought Kenny’s name up in Justin’s presence because at first, the mention of Kenny’s name made Justin cry.
Mary may wish that Eric would be the favorite uncle, the role model, but in truth, Uncle Kenny had been around when the going got tough. And Justin remembered Kenny as a happy-go-lucky uncle. One who chased him down halls and put together train sets. Justin, fortunately, didn’t know that Kenny did all this with a gun strapped to his ankle. Mary didn’t want Justin to miss Kenny. Justin was too impressionable now.
Alma went back to her original fetal position. The fetal position was a surprisingly good don’t-ask-me-any-more-questions technique that Mary had used herself once or twice. Then, the cabin came into view and Mary slowed. “Home sweet home,” she told Justin, looking at the century-old cabin that had been Eric’s inheritance from their grandfather. But now Eric lived in Gila City with his new wife and family and he was letting them stay here rent-free.
“And you’re sure we’ll have TV?” Justin asked.
“I’m sure. Maybe not today, but by next week for sure.”
Justin sat up and peered out the windshield. “Is the dark-haired guy Uncle Eric? I don’t remember him. He’s not as big as Uncle Kenny.”
No, Eric wasn’t as big as Uncle Kenny. Both Mary and Eric looked more like their mother. They were tall, dark and sinewy. Their older brothers, Sardi, Tony and Kenny, looked like their father. They resembled tall, dark, walking refrigerators. Eric’s friend had good-looking down to an art, but he sure wasn’t dressed for the dirty work of unloading furniture and unpacking boxes.
Both men started walking toward the driver’s side window. The friend’s walk was sure, deliberate. He moved without a smile. There was something about him…“He’s a cop,” Mary muttered.
Alma ducked.
“What are we going to do, Mom?” Justin sat up, half excited, half worried. In the backseat, panic seemed to roll off the girl in waves.
Mary recognized the extreme fear. A lifetime of avoiding police detection came back too easily. “Justin, it’s more like what you are going to do. Jump out, run over, give your Uncle Eric a hug and turn them away from the car. Alma, you slip out when they’re not looking and go hide. You’ll need to hide for quite a while. They’ll be unloading the U-Haul. Take some food and water from the box on the floorboard.”
Justin obeyed, and Mary watched as he approached and the men turned to the side.
Glancing in the backseat and watching as Alma rolled trail mix, chips and bottles of water into her blanket, Mary knew Alma had no intention of coming back.
Being alone for two days must have damaged Mitch’s vocal chords. Yes, that was it. Two days without giving orders, conducting interrogations or heading up meetings had combined to render him speechless. Otherwise, he’d have to admit it was the gorgeous woman stepping out of the car who left him tongue-tied.
Speechlessness wasn’t a comfortable feeling for Mitch, especially over the likes of Mary Santellis-Graham. He could see that she wasn’t nearly as bowled over by him. She had already made him as a cop and he wasn’t surprised by her quick assessment. Mary was a Santellis who’d been on the run for the past three years. Cop and bogeyman were synonymous in her world.
Eric appeared oblivious to the tension between Mitch and his sister and asked, “How was the drive?”
That’s when Mary smiled and his tongue went from tied to gone completely. Mitch hoped he didn’t need to say anything because he couldn’t, even if he tried.
She flipped her long hair over a shoulder and confidently strode toward her brother. The resemblance was uncanny. And both had mastered the art of attitude.
“The drive was fine. Now, why did you bring a cop with you?” Mary spoke the words to Eric but shot the get-off-my-property look at Mitch.
“He’s not a cop, exactly,” Eric said easily. “Mitch Williams is with Internal Affairs, which means unless you’ve done something bad with a cop or because of a cop, you’re safe.”
“My mom doesn’t go near cops,” Justin stated. “Me, neither.”
It was the young boy who helped free Mitch’s tongue. He had the blue-black hair and attitude of the Santellis clan, but from Mitch’s recollection of his run-ins with Eddie, the boy had his father’s stockiness. “So who do you go to when you’re in trouble?” Mitch asked.
“I go to my mom.”
Mitch turned to Mary. “And who do you go to when you’re in trouble?”
She met his gaze head-on. “I distance myself from the problem.”
Mitch almost grinned. He was pretty sure she was thinking he was going to be a problem.
“Hey, hey,” Eric butted in. “What’s going on here? You two, stop it. Sis, Mitch is your nearest neighbor. He lives right up there.”
Mitch watched as Mary warily looked up Prospector’s Way to the only cabin in sight.
Eric didn’t appear to notice her discomfort. “Mary, I came out early because I wanted to scout out the area. I didn’t know Mitch was even at his place. I’ve been filling him in on a case Ruth is investigating, and he’s willing to help.”
“What kind of case?” Mary asked carefully. Her son edged a little closer, looking interested.
Eric continued, “A two-month-old baby boy was kidnapped Sunday in Gila City. We know the family. The local police have done everything they know how to do, but each hour that passes gives whoever took the baby a greater chance of getting away.”
Mary’s eyes softened and she reached out and put her hand on her son’s shoulder, as if checking to making sure he was really next to her, really safe. She was taking care of her own.
There was no one who felt that way about Mitch.
And it was his own fault.
“They already rule out family members?” she asked.
“Yes, pretty much.” Eric said. “The mother’s a sixteen-year-old girl, Angelina Santos. Her father, a police officer, died just a year ago. The father is a fifteen-year-old boy. His family’s taking a little bit more time to warm to the idea of being grandparents, but, hey, they had plans for their son.”
“Sixteen, huh?” Mary said, slowly. “And Hispanic?”
Eric nodded, and Mitch watched Mary’s face. Something was bothering her and it wasn’t just him. Finally, she continued, “And you’re sure neither family is suspect?”
“Absolutely sure,” Eric insisted. “The girl’s family attends our church and when little José was—”
Mary held up her hand for him to stop. “Is the mother way too thin?”
“Too thin? No,” Eric said, “What makes you ask?”
“Mom, don’t!” Justin suddenly jerked away from his mother’s hand and turned to face her. His whole face shouted, don’t trust the cop! Stop talking.
They learned so young, this distrust of the system—a system supposed to help not hurt.
“Mom, Angelina’s the wrong name. Our girl’s Alma. Don’t tell them anything!”
Mary shot her son a look that almost made Mitch want to back down. In the silence of the moment and because years of habit told him just what to do, he pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and starting writing down names. “Tell me more about Alma, son,” he urged.
“Should I show—” Eric started to say.
“Not yet,” Mitch said. He wanted to see how the story went both before and after showing the drawing.
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