“I heard that.”
Reid blinked.
“You weren’t supposed to.”
Deck leaned back in his chair, one brow lifting.
“Son,” he said in that unmistakable soft Irish brogue, “I spent twenty-five years as a homicide detective. You whisper about as quietly as a foghorn in Dublin Harbor.”
Eleanor laughed before she could stop herself. Then the rest of the table joined in.
Liz wiped a tear from her eye.
“Oh, I adore him.”
Lawrence nodded calmly.
“He’s been watching over Ellie since Charleston.”
Deck shrugged modestly.
“Well, someone had to.”
Then he gave Reid a slow, sideways look.
“And besides,” he added dryly, “if I’m the bloodhound, that makes you the fox, doesn’t it?”
Reid raised both hands in surrender.
“Well, now I feel thoroughly judged.”
“You should,” Deck replied cheerfully.
More laughter rolled around the table.
Outside the café windows, Sylva carried on its quiet afternoon rhythm. Inside, the table felt warm and comfortable—like family.
Eleanor’s gaze drifted to the street.
A black SUV rolled slowly past the café.
Lila Grant.
The windows were tinted, but Eleanor didn’t need to see inside to know the camera was rolling.
The warmth at the table thinned.
Not gone.
Just…fragile.
40
The Walk Back
April headed back toward the courthouse first. “I have actual work to do,” she announced.
“Shocking,” Reid said.
