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He was silent a moment, then he left his chair and came around to sit on the edge of his desk, the way he had the day before. "You were very close to your mother, weren't you?"
The question took her off balance. "Yes, of course. When my father left us, she was… devastated. He had left the military, so she didn't get a monthly check anymore. She had me to take care of, and she didn't have any job skills, so she took any job she could get: cleaning houses, taking in ironing, waiting tables."
"Those don't pay much," he commented. His gaze never left her face.
"No. She worked two or three jobs, until I was old enough to get a job and help. The day I was hired at the hospital, she quit work. She had worked herself into the ground all those years, so it was my time to take care of her."
He regarded her silently for a moment, his expression enigmatic. "Not many people would feel that way," he finally said.
"Then something's wrong with them." Karen flared. She would have done anything she could to make her mother's life easier.
He held up his hand in a calming gesture. "I agree, I agree."
"Why are you asking? What does my mother have to do with you turning over my father's effects?"
He hesitated. "He kept something that was important to him. He could have hocked it, but instead it was sewn into the hem of his pants leg."
Puzzled, she stared up at him, trying to think what on earth could have been important to her father, certainly his wife or daughter hadn't been.
Detective Chastain reached behind him and took a small brown envelope out of the sack containing her father's clothes. He opened it and poured the contents into his hand. "It meant something to him," he said quietly, squatting down in front of her and opening his hand, palm up so she could see what he held.
Karen stared at the gold ring lying on the detective's callused palm. For a moment, she didn't recognize it for what it was, then she went numb all over. Her mind somehow separated from her body as if reality had abruptly altered. His wedding ring. He had kept his wedding ring. The simple presence of that plain gold band challenged everything she had thought she knew about her father. "That isn't fair," she whispered, and she didn't mean the detective's perception but instead her father's unexpected sentimentality. She didn't want to know this about him; she didn't want to think that perhaps he had regrets, and pain, and broken dreams. It was easier just to think of him as unfeeling.
But nothing was ever easy. Not death, and certainly not life.
Chastain didn't say anything, just continued squatting there with the ring lying on his palm like an offering.
What would have happened if she had been on her own? Surely there was a list of items, and she would have signed a receipt stating that she had received everything on the list, but she wouldn't have known her father had kept the ring sewn into the hem of his pants to keep it safe. The busy medical examiner wouldn't have done this personally, a clerk would have handled the chore, and she would never have known. Detective Chastain had gone out of his way to do this, as he had gone out of his way the day before to help her.
She saw herself reach out, the movement involuntary, as if her hand didn't belong to her. Her fingers were trembling. Slowly, she touched the ring, tracing the circle with one fingertip, then withdrew her hand to rest it once again in her lap.
Detective Chastain took her hand in his, his touch gentle as he opened her hand and placed the ring on her palm, then folded her fingers over it. The ring was warm, his hand even warmer. "He cared," he said. "I don't know why he left, but he didn't stop caring."
She couldn't look up at him. Instead, she stared at their hands, his hard and strong, tanned, much bigger than hers. His clasp was light, as if he were aware of his strength, as many men were not, and took care not to hurt her inadvertently.
Desperately, she struggled to hang on to her control, but his nearness and understanding undermined her. And he seemed to understand that, too, because he released her hand and stood, returning to his seat behind the battered desk.
"Thank you," she said, almost inaudibly. His distance was a relief, yet she found herself yearning for his support.
"You're welcome," he said, and left it at that.
"The rest of his things… are just clothes?"
"Yes. There's a list."
"At least I'll know what size suit to buy for him," she said, though she cringed at the idea of going through the shabby garments looking for tags. It was too much, too soon.
Detective Chastain paused a moment, watching her, then said quietly, "Forty-four long."
She swallowed and nodded, looking down at her hands. She had to ask him something, just to be certain, and though the answer would be difficult for a cop, she somehow knew he would be honest with her. "Detective…"
"What?" he asked gently after a moment, when she didn't continue.
She raised her eyes to him, squarely meeting his gaze. "Are—are you still working on the case?"
He paused, then said, "No."
Karen flinched, though it was exactly what she had expected. He squatted down in front of her again and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. The slight roughness of his callused skin scraped her, a warmly masculine sensation.
