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“How did you hurt your leg?”
He didn’t want to discuss it. “My leg won’t be an issue tonight.”
She chuckled. “I don’t think your leg is an issue any night, I was just curious.”
Opinions, he thought bitterly. He wished her assessment on his limitations was right. She had no idea the weakness and pain he dealt with on a daily basis.
“So I’m guessing it was a military thing.”
“Drop it, Heather.”
“Thanks. It’s good to be right.”
He refused to dignify that with a remark. Minutes ticked by, their breath and the occasional rustle of wind in the trees the only sounds. “Why do you care?” he asked, annoyed with himself. When she didn’t reply he held out hope he hadn’t actually blurted out the absurd question.
“I’m not sure. When I saw you running on the beach, adjusting your stride, I knew it bothered you.”
She bothered him. “It’s not your business.”
“Not much is,” she said after another long pause.
He checked his watch, refusing to ask why she felt that way. Trading life histories and secrets wasn’t the way to go here. As his friend Ross Carpenter liked to say, those conversations only created vulnerabilities an enemy could exploit.
“Oh,” she said on a little gasp. “There’s a shooting star.”
He spotted the streak of starlight as it lanced across the inky sky. “And you’re making a wish.”
“I am,” she whispered. “My father would be disappointed if I didn’t.”
He couldn’t see the smile, but he heard it in her voice, knew it was that open, serene expression he’d only seen her use with family. Not that they appreciated it. The resulting prick of jealousy made him feel like an idiot.
She wasn’t his, despite the kiss she’d planted on him for the benefit of the case.
That poor decision had backfired, one more mistake on this particular investigation.
“Did you make a wish?”
He wanted to wish this case closed. “No. It’s your star.” Where was a criminal when he needed a diversion?
“We could share it. My dad taught us anything was possible.”
He waited for the requisite statements about effort and desire. They didn’t come. “Anything?”
“Yes,” she said, rolling to her side. “He believed in the inherent value of imagination and dreams.”
“Inherent value?” Dale echoed. Of dreams. It sounded absurd.
“I know it sounds silly and childish out of context, but it worked for me.”
Probably because she was the youngest. Dale remembered protecting his sister’s innocence for as long as possible. Right up to her last breath. “Sometimes hope is the only thing left to give.”
“Even false hope?”
“Sometimes,” he replied, startled to realize he meant it.
“What happened?”
He didn’t want to tell her, but something had tripped the floodgates and he couldn’t keep it inside. “My mom let me drive home from a high school football game. A drunk driver hit us on the passenger side. I couldn’t save either of them.” He paused to regain control of his voice. He hadn’t told the story in more than a decade, didn’t want to tell it now.
