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“It didn’t happen on the job.” She wanted to push to her feet, get out, get away from that quiet sympathy. But her legs had gone to water. “I was a kid,” she heard herself say. “It was my father.”
It was he who moved. He rose, came to her, took her cold hands in his. Without a word, he simply drew her to her feet and into his arms where he held her so gently she felt she would break.
“I’m okay. I’m all right,” she managed even as she began to shake.
“There now. There. You’re safe here. You’re safe now.”
“It was a long time ago. I—”
“Time doesn’t heal, whatever they say. It’s how we use the time that can heal.” He stroked her back, as Roarke often did, and tears burned like embers in her throat.
“You sit now, sit right here, and wait. I’ll only be a minute.”
“I should go.”
He eased her back into the chair, touched a hand briefly to her cheek. “Sit right there.”
She did what he told her, struggled to find her balance again when he left the room. She had believed Mira would have told him. She understood the confidentiality, but they’d been married forever. Didn’t that outweigh...? Of course it didn’t.
She closed her eyes, forced herself to take slow breaths.
And both the Miras would understand and respect that.
Now she’d unloaded more of a burden on a man who was already grieving. She needed to get things back on course, then get back to work.
He came back—misbuttoned sweater, house skids, and carrying two delicate cups in their delicate saucers. Tears pressed viciously at the back of her eyes just from looking at him.
“We’ll have this very nice tea, with a healthy dollop of brandy. It helps.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him she didn’t like tea, or brandy, so took the cup.
“Drink now.”
She obeyed, and discovered whatever magic he’d put into the cup was like a warm stroke on the spirit. She drank some more.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mira. This isn’t about me. I only wanted to reassure you I’ll do everything I can to find the women who killed your cousin.”
“I never doubted that. There’s no need to explain, and you don’t have to tell me anything that makes you uncomfortable. I’d like to ask, if you can answer. Where was your mother?”
“She was as bad as he was. Maybe worse. She hated me. She left. She’s dead. I didn’t kill her. I killed him, but I didn’t kill her.” She closed her eyes. “Christ.”
“Do you think I’d judge you? My brave girl, I think you judge yourself far too harshly.”
“No—I—I did what I had to do. I know that.”
“But this investigation brings it back, and still you don’t set it aside. You could.”
“If I did that, he wins. If I did that, I don’t deserve the badge.”
“Far too harshly,” Dennis said quietly. “Will you tell me how old you were?”
“They said I was eight. When they found me, after, they said I was eight. They didn’t know who’d raped me or broken my arm, they didn’t know I killed him. Well, Homeland did—it’s complicated—but the police, the doctors, they didn’t know. And I didn’t—wouldn’t remember. I shut it all away.”
Those kind, kind eyes never left her face.
“A healthy response, I think. Just a child. A child should never have to defend herself from her father. A father should never prey on his own child. Biology, that’s simply science, isn’t it? There’s more in the world than science, more inside the human heart than DNA and genes. He was never your father in the true sense. I hope you can understand that.”
The simple heart of it all, she thought. Of course he would find the simple heart of it all.
