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"Nobody's allowed to feel sad on the first really nice spring day."
She smiled and lay her palms against his chest.
"Another old Irish proverb?"
"A rule," he said solemnly. "Besides, you haven't finished your story. What part did poor Beryl What's-Her-Name get to play in all this?"
"Beryl Goodman. Poor Beryl is right. All she'd done was watch the door while I made the switch but Blakely chewed her out and sent for her parents. Beryl cried and cried. I felt awful about it, but..." She made a face. "Come on, O'Neil, that's enough about me. You haven't finished your story. Was that how you broke your nose? In the motorcycle accident?"
"Actually," he said, with a little smile, "my old man did it."
Her face paled. "What?"
"He beat the crap out of me for taking the bike. Hey, I had it coming."
"Nobody has that coming," Miranda said furiously. "What kind of a man would do such a thing to his son?"
"He was a hard-liner, I guess. You know, spare the rod, spoil the child, that kind of stuff." Conor took her hand and brought it to his mouth. "If it makes you feel any better, I hated him for it for a long, long time."
"It doesn't make me feel a bit better, O'Neil, and don't you patronize me!"
"Whoa, take it easy. I'm not trying to—"
"A boy shouldn't have to hate his father, dammit. No child should have to hate a parent." Her voice broke as Conor gathered her against him. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't usually waste time feeling sorry for myself. It's just that I've never been able to figure out why a child wouldn't be loved."
"Maybe there is no why," he said softly, stroking her hair. "Nobody ever said life was perfect."
Miranda smiled, framed his face with her hands and brought his mouth to hers.
"Until now," she said, kissing him, and the knowledge that he was deceiving her rose within him until it felt as if it might stop his breath.
* * *
He told himself he wasn't violating her confidence, that he was only doing his job when he telephoned Thurston.
"Check out a Beryl Goodman for me, Harry. She attended a place called the Jefferson Academy with Miranda fourteen, fifteen years ago."
"A kook?"
"Probably not. Look, just check, okay? It's not much but it's something."
Harry told him the lab people had finished going over every inch of the box Bob Breverman had intercepted, as well as its ghoulish contents.
"Nothing," Harry said glumly. "Not a print, not a smudge, not a clue. Any leads on your end?"
"No."
"Nobody with reason to come after the girl?"
Conor rubbed his forehead. "Not as far as I know. Any more notes delivered to Eva?"
"No. Eva's not the key to this, Conor, I'm certain of it. The Beckman girl is. Find out what you can about her, anything she's kept hidden in her past."
"I'm here to protect her," Conor said angrily.
"You're there to do a job," Thurston said, and broke the connection.
* * *
