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As Carl’s presence faded, Bridget gestured to the now-vacant seat across from her.
“Take a seat, Kevin,” she offered, her eyes following Carl’s retreat through the window.
Kevin slid into the booth, placing his coffee on the table.
“You okay?” he asked, a tinge of concern threading his voice.
“Yeah, just an old friend,” Bridget replied, though her eyes stayed on the door a moment longer before finally meeting Kevin’s. “What brings you out this way? Don’t tell me my sister has you spying on me.”
He shook his head, the amusement clear in his eyes. “Hardly,” he replied. “I was out on a call and just driving by. Needed a coffee.” He lifted his mug, as if the coffee were evidence enough of his innocent intentions.
Then his expression softened, his eyes holding a quiet empathy. “Why would Jo need to spy on you?” he asked softly, genuinely curious.
Bridget’s cheeks tinged with color, and she looked away briefly before meeting his gaze again. “Jo’s just… overprotective. Since I was an addict and lived on the streets,” she confessed. “I’ve worked hard to clean up my act, and I think she’s worried I might fall back.”
Straightening up in the booth, Bridget’s voice carried a firm resolve. “I have no intention of going back, but Carl… Well, he’s from that old life. Sometimes it’s good to keep in touch.”
Kevin nodded as if understanding the complex pull of past connections.
Her gaze dropped momentarily then lifted to peek up at him from under her lashes—a mix of vulnerability and trust in her eyes. “You won’t tell Jo, will you?” she asked.
Kevin’s response was immediate, his voice quiet but firm. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he assured her. “We all have secrets. And I know you noticed I couldn’t remember where to file things. You didn’t tell Jo, so I guess we’re even. We’ll keep each other’s secrets.”
Bridget considered his words, a hint of playfulness appearing in her eyes. “Sort of like a pact?”
Kevin laughed, a short, hearty sound. “Sort of,” he agreed.
Extending her hand across the table, Bridget offered a tangible sign of their mutual understanding. “Then I guess we should shake on it.”
Kevin placed his hand in hers, and for a moment, they both acknowledged the gravity of their shared confidences with a firm handshake. As they did, Bridget couldn’t help but notice the strength and warmth in his grasp, and it felt reassuring—a silent affirmation of their newly formed bond.
CHAPTERTWENTY
In the squad room, Jo stared at her screen, the cursor blinking back at her with a kind of indifferent challenge. She’d hit a wall with April Summers. The digital world was keeping its secrets close this time.
The research into people with the initials H.M. hadn’t been much more successful. She hadn’t struck out, but there were hundreds of them.
“Any luck?” Sam asked, glancing over from his desk piled with his own leads to nowhere.
Jo rubbed her temples. “I’m swimming in a sea of H.M.s. Six hundred and counting. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack… if the haystack were made of needles.”
Sam let out a dry chuckle. “That’s one prickly haystack.”
The sound of the front door opening announced Reese’s entrance. After a few minutes of rustling sounds, Reese appeared at the doorway of the squad room, all bubbly and smiles.
Jo caught a twinkle in Reese’s eyes. “What’s up? It looks like you are bursting to tell us something.”
Reese’s grin widened, lighting up her face. “Oh, it’s nothing to do with our cases. I’ve brought a piece of artwork for the reception area. I’d love to hear what you all think,” she said, her gaze eagerly shifting from Jo to Sam and then to Wyatt. Her excitement was palpable, like that of a child showing off a new toy.
Led by their curiosity, the trio followed Reese out of the squad room. As they approached the reception area, Reese held the artwork with a flourish reminiscent of a game show host revealing a grand prize. The painting, however, was a stark contrast to her enthusiasm.
Jo scrutinized the canvas, her brows knitting in confusion. It was a chaotic ensemble of colors and shapes. Bold splotches of paint, ranging from bright oranges to deep blues, clashed violently against each other. Startling greens swirled unpredictably, their edges blurred and undefined. Here and there, aggressive splatters of red seemed to burst from the canvas, like drops of blood in midexplosion. Amidst the chaos, streaks of yellow melted into their surroundings, giving off an impression of a solar flare caught in a cosmic dance.
Wyatt, usually not one to mince words, leaned closer to the artwork, squinting as if trying to decipher a hidden message among the vibrant chaos. The painting, in its abstract boldness, seemed to demand attention, yet its meaning, if there was any, remained elusive.
Sam, standing beside Jo, tilted his head slightly, his expression morphing into a puzzled frown. “What’s it supposed to be?” he asked, his tone a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity.
“It’s not ‘supposed to be’ anything. It’s modern art,” Reese replied, her enthusiasm slightly dampened by their puzzled reactions.
