Keep Her Safe(17)

“Well, she’s darn determined this time.” The hardwood floors in the hallway creak.

“Thank you for the invitation,” the woman says. “I was in the midst of figuring out what to make for tonight when George mentioned it this morning. Saves me from having to cook!”

I frown. Silas invited this couple over for dinner just this morning? That’s unlike my aunt and uncle. They’re normally reserving space in their calendars two months in advance.

“Come. Let’s have a drink in the parlor.”

I chuckle. My cousin, Emma, would be rolling her eyes if she heard him. Judy is desperate to live in nineteenth-century England, and has decorated their living room with stiff furniture and china figurines and floor-to-ceiling bookcases that house leather-bound volumes. It’s one of those rooms that’s used only when company comes and is not at all comfortable.

I finish setting the table and then wander in, to find Silas mid-pour from a crystal decanter. His idea of a pre-supper cocktail is Kentucky bourbon. “There you are! Noah, do you remember George?”

“Hi.” I offer my hand in greeting, but can’t help the frown as I study the portly man with the gray beard because he does look familiar. I just can’t place where I’ve seen him.

“Well, look at you!” He seizes my hand in a firm grasp. “To think I last saw you when you were a gangly boy.”

“And if we don’t get food into him soon, he’s going to turn into one again,” Silas mutters, passing a drink to the man.

The way they’re talking, I feel like an ass for not knowing who this guy is. “It’s been a while,” I say casually.

George’s round belly jiggles with his laughter. “You don’t have the first damn clue who I am, do you, son?”

“George, really!” his wife, a petite brunette with a round face, a glass of sweet tea already in hand, scolds.

“No offense taken. You probably only saw me in uniform and it has been a while. I’m George Canning. I was chief for some time.”

“For twenty years,” Silas pipes in, clinking glasses with him in a toast. “And he was so dang good at it, he’s getting his own life-sized monument downtown this June.”

“Yes, hopefully a trimmer version.” He emphasizes the word with a pat against his gut.

Silas adds, “Your mother knew George well.”

George clears his throat and with the act, all amusement vanishes. “Dolores and I were on our way to Italy for a wedding when we heard the news. It was a shock to all of us.”

I simply nod, not trusting my voice with this prickly ball sitting inside my throat. So much for mindless conversation with people who don’t know anything about me.



* * *



“Noah!” Silas nods his head toward his office entrance.

“I should get going home.” Two hours of listening to the women babble about Italian food and grandchildren, and the men debate about Republicans and Democrats, is my limit. Thankfully, the one thing everyone stayed far away from during supper was talk of Jackie Marshall.

“Nonsense.” He hooks an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into the traditional man cave of dark leather, mahogany furniture, and heavy drapery. George has already found his spot in a chair in front of the wide-open French doors, a lighter held against the cigar in his mouth.

Silas sees my brows pop and laughs. “Your aunt may reign over the roost, but I get the final say in my little coop.” He thrusts a glass of amber liquid into my hand. “Join us.”

I hate hard liquor—more now than before—but when Silas offers, you don’t refuse. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“That Jackie raised you right, I can see that.” George lifts his foot to push a chair out for me with his polished shoe. “The kids these days . . . My grandkids misplace their manners more than those godforsaken electronics they’re attached to.”

“She’s a stickler for some things. Was a stickler.” A fresh wave of numbness washes over me before I have to feel the full impact of that simple correction.

George’s heavy sigh fills the room. “I still don’t know what to say. I never would have seen that comin’ in a million years.”

“No one did.” My standard three-word line. Pretty sure I’ve started saying it in my sleep.

“Silas mentioned that she had a bit of an issue with . . .” He tilts his glass in the air.

“Near the end,” I admit reluctantly.

“Bad?”

“Bad enough.”

“I reckon so.” He shakes his head. “She’d be far from the only one to get caught up in the drink. She and the boys could tie one on, back in the good ol’ days. Still . . . I can’t make heads or tails of it.” Sweet smoke fills my nostrils as he puffs on his cigar. “She was smart as a whip, that one, and driven to succeed. Loyal . . . honest . . . Integrity like I’ve never seen.”

I can’t help but drop my gaze, afraid that he’ll see the doubt in my eyes.

“I wish I could say the same for the rest of the force and your blue wall of silence,” Silas mutters. “It’s no wonder the public doesn’t trust the police.”

“Now don’t get all riled up with that hogwash,” George warns through another puff.