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It was Marshall’s house now.
It wasn’t so bad around the place. Better than when the guy before Blankenbaker was there. Marshall was better than Blankenbaker, too. Even better than Daniel McKellen the First, too. Far better than that shady bastard.
Marshall was decent. Believed in what he was doing, just like his daddy had before. Sol thought the guy was a bit naive, personally. But, hell, who was he to judge any other man?
His own sins were black on his soul.
When Hope Coleson climbed out of the little two door sedan, with help from one of her nieces or cousins or sisters or whatever she was, his attention sharpened. He pulled in a breath, then coughed.
Sol had figured it out the night of that damned barbecue. After he’d gotten a good look at that little doll baby’s face up close. It had been the freckles that had done it. And the grin the girl had shot at Rodriguez as the big guy had scooped her up from the ground like that. The knit cap with that particular logo on it.
A logo he’d seen countless times before.
It was her. That kid.
Sol must have stared at that poster over Maribeth’s old twin bed for a good fifteen minutes, not believing what he was seeing. But there, in bold purple ink over the bottom, right next to that logo, had been “Horrible Hope Coleson” and the year.
Horrible Hope.
Maribeth’s idol. That skateboarder.
Horrible Hope Coleson.
Who now worked in the Finley Creek TSP forensics lab running sperm samples or counting algae in pond water or something, as Dr. H. H. Coleson.
Sol hadn’t believed it at first. But google was a powerful thing.
Sol had spent hours learning everything he could about this kid’s life. From the accident that had killed her and Heather’s parents, to what had happened to the sister that had raised her during that Eastman thing.
He put out his cigarette. The young woman in scrubs was handing little Hope a damned crutch now. He could see the bright purple cast on Hope’s hand, too.
Hell. He hadn’t expected her to need a damned crutch.
That girl really had hurt herself rescuing Rodriguez’s kid. Worse than Sol had thought. But she was back now. Her sister was handing her a bag that had to weigh half what Hope did. She couldn’t get all the way to the elevators inside and down to the forensics lab, not with a bag that heavy.
Sol didn’t know what made him think to do it, but he stepped up to her. He reached around her, took the bag from her sister’s hands.
“Honey, let me help you get inside and down to the lab. You look a bit wobbly there.”
Big dark eyes—eyes just a bit darker than his Maribeth’s had been—looked at him. Suspiciously. Like she didn’t trust him.
Little Hope looked over at her sister. Sol took a moment to study the other girl, too. A pretty delicate angel thing with the same pale white skin and big dark eyes with even darker hair, dressed in light green hospital scrubs. This one resembled Heather far more than little Hope. Just more porcelain-doll-and-sweet-like. “I?—”
“I’m here, Kimball. I’ll help my sister downstairs,” a firm voice said behind him. “But thank you for the offer. It’s appreciated.”
Sol turned. Heather stood there. She stepped up to her sister’s side. Looking all severe and buttoned down, hair slicked back into a ponytail—and nothing like the open, approachable, beautiful woman she had been at the barbecue at the Barratt Ranch.
Sol was still trying to figure the woman out. No denying that.
Nothing doll baby about this one. Far from it. One of the road officers had described Heather as a “walking wet dream” in his hearing once. Sol had reeducated that punk on how a colleague should be mentioned damned fast after hearing that. Women in law enforcement had it tough enough as it was—they didn’t need their own damned teammates talking dirty about them like that.
If some punk had ever talked about Maribeth that way, Sol would have wiped the floor with him. Women like the three staring at him now deserved far more respect than that.
Hell, almost all women did. He had met a few in his time who didn’t—usually they were the ones on the wrong side of the cuffs, though.
Or his ex-mother-in-law. That woman had been a real piece of work.
“I was on my way to meet you. You got here faster than I expected. Careful of the crack there,” Heather said. She was almost hovering over little Hope. Overprotective.
