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“Pop!” She pushed away from her desk, walking into his outstretched arms. She still didn’t like to be touched, but she made exceptions for Mom and Pop McK. The contact seemed to make them happy.
Kit would do nearly anything to make those two happy.
“Kitty-Cat,” he said, tightening his arms until her ribs protested. He let her go when she grunted, his expression sheepish. “Sorry. Haven’t seen you in too long.”
“It’s been two weeks,” she said dryly, but leaned up to peck his cheek, her heart warming at his pleased look. “What brings you into the city?”
Because Harlan McKittrick hated the city. He was made for wide open spaces, not high-rises and traffic.
“We’re getting a new kid. Mom is meeting with the social worker and I thought I’d stop in and say hi.”
“Well, hi. Come and sit with me. I can take a short break.”
He looked around as he followed her back to her desk, curious as always. He was no stranger to the homicide division, having haunted its halls for years after they’d lost Wren. He’d kept the promise he’d made after Wren’s funeral, helping her search for the man who’d killed her sister. They’d been unsuccessful in finding the monster, but even after sixteen years they still searched.
She wondered if he’d come with a new lead. If so, it would be the first one in five years.
“Nope,” he said as he eased his six-foot-two frame into the chair next to her desk. “Nothing new.”
He’d always been able to read her mind. It had been maddening in her teenage years. He’d always known when she was ready to bolt or if she was telling anything less than the total truth. Now it was a comfort that someone knew her so well.
“Me either. So tell me about the new kid.”
“Thirteen-year-old girl.” His shoulders drooped. “She was scared of me.”
She squeezed his hand. “She’ll see that you’re different. They always do.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “You did.”
“I did, indeed.”
He sat quietly for a moment, then dug something from his pants pocket. Kit tensed, knowing what it would be even before the little carving appeared.
It was that time of year. Again.
Sixteen anniversaries of Wren’s murder and still no closure. But true to his word, Pop McK had never forgotten the little girl who’d been such a bright light.
He held out his offering on his flat palm, just as he always did, year after year. It was always a little bird. Kit had a special shelf in her bedroom for the birds, placed where she could see them when she opened her eyes each morning.
They were the only things in her home that she routinely dusted.
Except today it wasn’t a bird—or not just a bird. It was a cat with a bird perched on its head. The bird looked quizzical. The cat looked... content. Three inches long and an inch wide, it was intricate and detailed and beautiful.
“Pop,” she breathed. Gingerly, she took it from his hand. At one time, it had been because she was touch averse. Now it was because it looked like the little figurine would snap if she gripped it too firmly. “Thank you.”
“It won’t break,” he told her. “You can carry it in your pocket if you want to. For luck.”
“I will.” But she didn’t, not yet. She held the small carving up to the light, marveling at his skill as she always did. “It’s amazing.”
His smile was shy, an adorable look on a man as big as he was. He dug in his pocket once again, bringing out another carving. This one was just a bird. It was still beautifully done, but the bird sat alone on a twig.
“For your shelf.”
She took it from his palm. “Thank you, Pop.”
“You’re welcome, Kitty-Cat,” he murmured, running a hand over her hair. “I have something for you, Baz.”
Baz got up from his desk to sit on the corner of Kit’s. He hadn’t even been pretending not to listen. “Yes, please.”
