“I have to see and feel through the victim to do my job. It’s how I do my job. Through the killer, too. This isn’t any different.”
If she heard the defensive tone in Eve’s voice—and of course she did—Mira let it pass.
“Your empathy is as key to your process as your instincts and training. But this is different, and it’s deeper. I hope you’ll come to me if you feel the need.”
“I’m fine. I’m good. I can handle it.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
She’d closed her hand around her water glass before Dennis spoke. Now simply sat very still.
“They don’t give a choice. They speak to you, these girls. They all speak to you, every victim you stand over and for. But you hear these girls in your head, your heart. How could you ignore them, pretend not to hear?”
Her chest went tight, and she breathed out. “I can’t.”
“You wouldn’t be who you are if you could, or did. It costs you, of course it does, but turning away would cost so much more.”
He poured more wine into her glass, then a tiny bit more into his own. “Charlotte and I often talk through our day and our worries. Sometimes we have to do that hypothetically, but we have our codes. Don’t we, Charlie?”
“Yes.” She closed a hand over his. “We do.”
“I can’t count the number of times over the years I’ve worried about her. What she does, what she sees. It often hurts her, what she does, what she sees. And so I hurt. You understand.”
“I do, yes,” Roarke said.
“We don’t have a choice, either, do we? We fell in love with strong, courageous women, women dedicated to facing down the monsters in the world, whatever the cost.
“We tell our children monsters aren’t real. But they are. You’ll find this girl, I’m sure of that. And you’ll find the monsters. Roarke and Charlie will help you. You have to let them.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to close off help than to open up to it.”
Now he smiled, and his eyes danced. “I could tell you stories.”
Mira laughed, leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Don’t.”
They had strawberry shortcake with fresh whipped cream and coffee, then at Mira’s request took a walk around the gardens.
Roarke guided them through the grove of fruit trees to the pond.
“Now I have serious envy.” Mira sighed. “What a beautiful spot.”
“I could dream away a day right there on that bench.”
“You’re welcome to,” Roarke told Dennis. “Any time at all.”
Following the path lights, they walked back to the house. At the door, Mira kissed Roarke’s cheek. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner.” Then Eve’s. “I’ll write up the conclusions and profiles.”
“I appreciate it.”
When Dennis hugged her, she spoke quietly in his ear. “Thanks for what you said before.”
He simply drew back, pressed a light kiss to the bruising under her eye. “Next time, duck.”
“Got it.”
When Roarke closed the door, Eve stood where she was a moment. “It was a good idea to have them over like this. Thanks for taking care of it.”
“It was nothing. No trouble at all.”
“I still have to … I haven’t set up my board, started my book here.”
“Then we’d best go up. I can set up your board if you like while you do the rest. You can adjust it as needed,” he added when she didn’t respond.
“That’d be great.”
When she stepped into the office, she glanced toward the sleep chair, but Galahad wasn’t sprawled over it.
“He’s likely with Summerset, as we deserted him for the evening.”
“Right. I have to generate the photos and data for the board.”
“I can do it on the auxiliary.”
Of course he could, she thought, and went to her command center, opened operations. And programmed a pot of coffee.
For a time they worked in silence. Such silence, she thought, and keenly missed the cat’s presence.
Roarke broke it as he arranged her board. “This Pru Truman, the Child Services caseworker. We didn’t get around to her at dinner.”
“Peabody’s report—copied to her supervisor—is there, too. Who also got a call from me. Stupid, careless, lazy bitch.”
The outrage ripped back, tearing her out of her chair to pace.
“It’s all the kid’s fault, as she sees it. So much the kid’s fault she doesn’t do a goddamn thing when the neighbors tell her the mother smacks the kid around. Or check the mother’s bullshit about home-schooling. Or do the least amount of work and demand to see and speak to the kid directly. Which she couldn’t have done because the kid took off last summer. And the pathetic excuse for a mother’s been collecting her professional parent stipend all along.”