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It was Heather; she had that baby of hers in her arms again. Heather’s hair waved a bit, Lake’s wife’s was straight, and Heather’s was a shade or two lighter, he thought. But from a distance—damn, the resemblance between those two was strong.
She smiled down at the baby she held. He loved it when Heather smiled like that.
He watched. Heather was a beautiful mother.
Surprising, really. She always came off as a hard-ass ballbuster at the precinct. Then again, doing the job surrounded by as many dumbasses as they were—maybe she’d had to be.
Someone walked up behind Heather. Said something. Sol blinked.
Stared.
For a moment there, he could have sworn it was his Maribeth standing right there.
The hair was a bit darker, though. Just a bit. Now that he looked closer. His girl had dressed in clothes like that. Overalls and a slouchy hat, of all things. Just like that girl there.
Sol studied the girl beside Heather, sure it had to be another one of her nieces, or something. Everyone knew the Colesons were a huge family of women.
It took him a moment to put together who that girl was.
Heather’s younger sister. The one that worked forensics. Hope.
Her name was Hope and she was so damned young, Sol felt twice his years just looking at her. Barely more than a teenager. He’d seen her around the precinct during second shift before. Everyone had been talking about her this week, considering.
That was the one Rodriguez had arrested or something.
Everyone was cracking jokes about it. Rodriguez had arrested her on some underage thing and then had had to let her go—because she wasn’t underage and worked in forensics.
He’d heard the jokes. Miguel Rodriguez didn’t often mess up. He’d also heard the girl had called Rodriguez a “perv in a cheap suit” before wailing for her older sister to rescue her from juvie or something. Those idiots from Major Crimes had been singing that “Rescue Me” song to Rodriguez ever since.
Her name had stuck with him. Hope.
His Maribeth’s middle name had been Hope. She’d loved it. Said her favorite skateboarder had been named Hope something or rather.
Sol didn’t feel much hope any longer. Not anymore.
He’d never seen that younger Coleson girl in street clothes before. Or up that close. Forensics techs always wore green polo shirts with their department printed on the breast and shapeless navy BDU pants with lots of pockets. Or paper coveralls when the evidence was real bad or messy. Those lab kids were mostly interchangeable.
But in street clothes, she could have been his girl’s twin now.
Sol stayed right where he was for a long, long time.
And just watched her.
Remembered his own baby girl.
He had her picture in his wallet. He pulled it out, looking at it for a moment. Then watched her, Hope, as she took off with a boy who looked like he was probably related. The kid had a skateboard. Hell, Sol hadn’t seen his own girl without a skateboard from about the age of ten. She’d lived for it. Maribeth had loved her skateboard.
Sol turned, told Costovia that he needed to stretch his legs for a minute. That this fancy party was more than he was used to.
And he followed her.
Hope.
Sol watched as one of those damned rich Barratts approached her. Smiled at her in that phony way guys had when they were on the make. Little Hope smiled right back.
She had a killer smile. The kind that could knock a man back. Maribeth’s smile would have been like that, too. If she had made it to Hope’s age. Some rich guy would have tried to take advantage. Sol would have had to step in and protect his little girl. Tell the punk what was what and everything.
But who protected Hope from the bastards of the world now? Heather?
