Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  The room went quiet, the admission hanging in the air between them.

  He lifted his head, and at the compassion radiating from her, he nearly lost it. No one had ever looked at him with such gentleness and empathy. It was almost as if Eve could feel the pain that had plagued him for decades—which was crazy.

  Yet it felt real.

  “I’m sorry, Brent.” The ache in her whisper tightened his throat. “I can’t imagine growing up in that kind of environment.”

  He gave a stiff shrug, hanging on to his composure by a hair. “I survived.”

  “Are your grandparents still living?”

  “No. My grandmother died eight years ago, my grandfather eleven months later. After they retired to Florida when I was twenty, I didn’t see much of them.” He picked up the fork, ran the tines through the icing, and let the sweetness dissolve on his tongue.

  But it couldn’t mask the lingering bitterness he’d tried for years to vanquish.

  Eve leaned forward, concern etching her features. “They didn’t neglect you—or mistreat you—did they?”

  “Not in the way you mean. I always had enough to eat, clean clothes, and a warm place to sleep. As long as I followed the house rules, life was placid. But they were aloof people, and it was a lonely childhood. That’s why I developed such a love for reading. Books let me escape to happier places.”

  Eve’s eyes began to shimmer. “Given your home life, I can’t believe you turned out as normal as you did.”

  If only.

  “That depends on how you define normal. I have a career I enjoy. I have a faith that sustains me, thanks to a youth leader at our church who took me under his wing when I was nine. I show up for work, pay my bills, take a vacation once in a while, volunteer with Big Brothers. But not every part of my life is normal.”

  “Such as?” Eve’s question was mild, undemanding—and if he didn’t want to answer it, she wasn’t going to push.

  He took a sip of his coffee . . . debating.

  This was the part of the conversation he’d most dreaded—and he still wasn’t certain he could crack the door wide enough to let her in.

  The strains of “I Won’t Back Down” filled the kitchen, and despite the tension rippling through him, a grin twitched at his lips. That had to be the ringtone on Eve’s cell. It fit her to a T.

  She glanced at the counter, an annoyed frown marring her forehead.

  “Tom Petty is calling.” He picked up his mug. “Go ahead and answer.”

  And give me a couple of minutes to hash out my dilemma.

  Although he didn’t speak those words, she seemed to hear them—because after a brief hesitation, she slid off her chair.

  “Hold your thought. I’ll be back in a sec.” She crossed the room to retrieve her cell.

  Leaving him to figure out how far he wanted to take this tonight—and whether he had the courage to go the distance.

  11

  OF ALL THE INOPPORTUNE TIMES for the phone to ring!

  Eve snatched the cell off the counter and scowled at the screen.

  Grace.

  It figured. Her sister’s timing had never been the best.

  She pushed the talk button, held up an index finger to Brent, and hurried into the hall.

  This was not going to take more than one minute!

  However . . . her guest was probably glad for the reprieve. It would give him a chance to decide how he wanted to proceed—or if he even wanted to continue their conversation.

  Much as she hoped he would, pushing would be a mistake. He’d already shared far more tonight than she’d expected—which was why she’d beaten back the temptation to let the call roll. In his shoes, she would have appreciated a chance to weigh the pros and cons before wading into murky waters.

  “Hello? Eve? Are you there?”

  Oops.

  She’d forgotten to greet her sister.

  “Yeah, I’m here. What’s up?”

  “Does something have to be up for me to call you?”

  “Uh . . . no.” She ducked into her bedroom and closed the door. “I just thought you might have news.”

  “I’m not the one in the headlines these days. What’s the latest with you?”

  She hesitated. Telling Grace about tonight’s incident was a given, but if she dallied to explain the details—and answer all the questions her sister would throw at her—Brent could get tired of waiting and leave as soon as she returned.

  “I do have an update—but can I call you back later?”

  A few seconds ticked by.

  “Why are you out of breath?”

  Was she?

  “Um, I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

  More silence.

  “Do you have company?”

  Grace’s ability to link seemingly disparate pieces of information and come to accurate conclusions was amazing.

  It was also irritating in certain circumstances—like this one.

  “I gave a talk tonight, remember?” If she dodged the query, maybe her sister would drop the subject. “I only got home twenty minutes ago.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  No, it didn’t.

  And Grace was as tenacious as ever.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Three beats ticked by.

  “Is your detective there?”

  Eve blinked. How in the world had her sister come to that conclusion?

  No matter. She was stuck. Short of an outright lie, there was nothing to do except admit the truth.

  “Yes . . . on official business.” Sort of.

  “Has there been another attack?” Grace’s tone sharpened.

  “Yes—but nothing physical. It was indirect, like the other two. I’ll explain everything when I call you back.”

  “Is the detective still questioning you?”

  More like baring his soul—unless this ill-timed call had jinxed everything.

  “We’re finishing up.”

  “So you’ll call me back soon?”

  “As soon as I can.” She cracked the bedroom door and cocked her ear. A quiet clunk suggested Brent had set his mug down—meaning he’d remained at the table.

  “Fine. I’ll let you go. But one piece of advice. Unless you want him to disappear forever after this case is over, try to give him some indication you’re interested.”

  Already done. Inviting the man in for coffee and cake was about as clear as she could make her interest at this point.

  But her sister didn’t have to know that.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Don’t just keep it in mind. Spit the words out.”

  “I don’t think spitting will endear me to him.”

  “Very funny. I’ll be waiting for your call—and a full report.”

  The line went dead.

  And none too soon.

  Phone in hand, Eve hurried back to the kitchen. “Sorry about that. It was my sister.”

  “Grace?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She retook her seat. Brent had eaten several bites of his cake while she was gone, and his mug was half empty. “If you want a refill, let me know.”

  “I’m fine for now.” He took another sip, and one side of his mouth flexed up. “I like your ringtone. It suits you.”

  “Cate says it’s indicative of my stubborn streak.”

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “Thanks. I’m impressed you recognized it.”

  “I’m a fan of oldies but goodies.” He forked a piece of cake. “Here’s the name of a reputable tire service, as promised.” He slid a face-down business card toward her, the information jotted on the back.

  The conversation had degenerated to ringtones, music, and flat tires.

  Drat.

  He wasn’t going to pick up the discussion where they’d left off.

  But the choice about whether to continue was his, and she had to respect his privacy—despite the dozen questions in her mind clamoring for air time.r />
  “I appreciate the recommendation.” She moved the card aside, away from the sticky icing.

  “You haven’t touched your cake.” He motioned toward her dessert.

  She summoned up a brief smile. “You did manage to get ahead of me.”

  “Why don’t you tackle it while I finish what I was telling you when the phone interrupted us?”

  His tone was calm. Conversational. Impersonal almost. As if what he was about to say didn’t matter in the least.

  But it did.

  Not only to him, but to them.

  Trust was everything in a relationship, and his willingness to continue after having a chance for second thoughts spoke volumes.

  Spirits rebounding, she picked up her fork, broke off a bite of the cake—and waited.

  He took another sip of coffee, set the mug down, and looked at her. “My grandmother always baked a cake for my birthday. Once a year I got to lick the knife.”

  Once a year.

  Somehow she knew that simple fact was significant.

  Twin crevices dented his brow. “I don’t know why I made that comment tonight about licking the knife. Instead of bringing back happy memories, it reminds me how sterile and empty my life was the other 364 days of the year—including Christmas. After church, I opened a few practical presents like socks and shirts. Later, my grandmother fixed dinner, my grandfather disappeared into his study, we ate, and I read in my room until bedtime.”

  Eve tried to imagine that sort of subdued holiday, where everyone in the family passed most of the day in solitary pursuits.

  Failed.

  The Reilly Christmas always meant mounds of presents, laughter, board games by the fireplace, joyful holiday carols playing in the background, and a sense that God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

  “I’m sorry, Brent.” She gentled her voice. “A child’s Christmas should be filled with the makings of happy memories.”

  He shrugged. “I got used to it—and got past it.”

  No, he hadn’t, or it wouldn’t be haunting him two decades later.

  But she left that unsaid.

  “Did you have any friends while you were growing up?”

  “Yes.” The shadows on his face brightened a shade. “Adam Moore was my best bud in grade school. Still is. His family always welcomed me whenever my grandparents let me visit. I was there often enough to recognize what I was missing in my own home and to get exposure to a normal family situation.”

  “Thank God you had that.”

  “I did—and do—every day.”

  “When did you leave your grandparents’ house?” Calling it home would be too much of a stretch.

  “College. I went to an out-of-state school and never lived in their house again.”

  Their house—not our house.

  Her heart ached for the little boy who’d never felt welcome in his own home—and for the grown-up man who bore the scars.

  “Did you stay in touch?”

  “I called every few weeks, and I dropped by once in a while. My last visit was ten years ago. I’d been on a retreat, and afterward I got the urge to give my grandparents a gift. I knew they’d always wanted to take a cruise, and since I had the County job by then—and a regular salary—I decided to surprise them. A last-ditch effort to connect, I guess. I also wrote them a letter that was a bit on the sappy side.”

  In other words, he’d taken a risk and bared his soul.

  She leaned forward. “What happened?”

  “They thanked me for the cruise.”

  “What about the letter?”

  “They said they’d read it after I left.”

  “Did they?”

  “I don’t know.” A muscle clenched in his jaw. “They never mentioned it again.”

  Merciful heaven. How could they have treated their own flesh and blood with such coldness?

  “I’m so sorry, Brent.” Somehow she managed to choke out the words.

  “Hey.” He touched her hand. “It’s okay.”

  No, it wasn’t.

  But she couldn’t change the past. All she could try to do was ensure he had a better future.

  As she struggled to get a grip on her emotions, he spoke again.

  “Eve—I didn’t introduce this subject to dwell on the past or to elicit sympathy. I brought it up to help you understand how my childhood shaped me . . . and why I’m deficient in certain areas of my life.”

  “None that I can see.”

  “You would in time.” He linked his fingers on the table. “Let me cut to the chase. As you’ve probably deduced, my grandparents weren’t the most demonstrative or warm people. I witnessed few exchanges of affection between them, and they were no different with me.”

  “What about when you were a young child? Didn’t they kiss you good night or . . . or comfort you if you were sad or hurting?” Surely they had a few loving qualities.

  “No. They were stoic personalities. There wasn’t much laughter in the house, nor were tears allowed. Everyone was expected to suck it up and carry on. As a result, I learned to be self-sufficient and to keep my emotions on a tight leash. That’s been an asset in my work—but less so in my personal life. In fact . . . it’s been a significant problem.”

  All of a sudden, the gentle rain that had begun falling as they’d arrived at her house intensified. The drops hammered against the skylight, adding to the drumbeat of tension in the room as she tried to process all he’d told her.

  The man sharing her kitchen table had given her a bunch of facts—most of them heartbreaking. Yet there had been one revealing omission.

  He hadn’t talked about how his bleak childhood had made him feel.

  Or how he felt now.

  And why would he, after being raised by two such cold people? After spending his youth in a joyless environment where emotion was discouraged? After his one outreach as an adult had been rebuffed with callous indifference?

  After all, if you didn’t get close to anyone, you couldn’t get hurt.

  But people who never allowed themselves to feel emotions—or make connections—could have difficulty forming social attachments.

  Was that why he’d never married? Was that what he’d been trying to tell her with that last comment? That he wasn’t the best husband material?

  Or was she reading too much into his remark?

  No way to be certain unless she asked for clarity . . . with as much diplomacy as she could muster.

  She pressed a finger on a stray crumb and deposited it on her plate, speaking slowly as she formulated her response. “I’m trying to read between the lines here, and I may be off base—but I’m interpreting what you said to mean you haven’t always been as successful in relationships as you’ve been in your career. And that this may be why you’ve never married.”

  The corners of his mouth rose, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Are you certain you didn’t double major in psychology?”

  “Psych 101 was as far as I went. Western history and political science were my focus.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “How did you end up in education?”

  “History and poli sci majors don’t get a ton of job offers. The teaching gig in a private high school fell into my lap, and I grabbed it. Doing the blog on the side allowed me to use my degrees—but I’d still be teaching if that hadn’t taken off and led to the radio program. I enjoyed working with young people.”

  “Well, you would have done well in psych. You nailed the problem. I tend to keep my emotions close to my vest, and that isn’t conducive to starting—or maintaining—a relationship.”

  Careful, Eve.

  “Is that conclusion based on assumption—or experience?”

  “Experience.”

  Meaning he had at least one failed relationship in his past—perhaps more.

  And they must have come to ugly ends if they’d scared him off of trying again—and impelled him to warn her he was damaged goods.

  Except he wasn’
t.

  If his emotions were buried too deep to retrieve . . . if his ability to connect with another person was too broken to salvage . . . if he truly believed he was destined to live his life alone . . . he wouldn’t be in her kitchen tonight, sharing such painful secrets from his past.

  Nor would he be here if he didn’t care for her a great deal.

  Maybe more than he’d ever cared for any other woman.

  But would he be receptive to her conclusions—or think she was glossing over wounds he was convinced had left permanent damage?

  Only one way to find out.

  Once again, she reached out and covered his linked fingers with hers. “I can’t speak to your past serious relationships—”

  “Relationship. Singular. These days I never let my interactions with women get past the superficial conversation stage. Karen was the one exception.”

  That piece of news—plus the flicker of pain that flared in his dark brown irises—put a different spin on the situation . . . and revealed more than he’d perhaps intended to share.

  The deep-seated fear behind Brent’s unwillingness to connect had been turbocharged by his one serious relationship that had gone south.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened with her?”

  The rain continued to pound overhead as she held her breath and waited for his response.

  At last he swallowed. “That’s a story for another day. It’s getting late, and I should be going.”

  Eve released the air in her lungs, doing her best to mask her disappointment.

  He was done sharing for tonight.

  Yet she should be thankful he’d opened up as much as he had and given her new insights.

  The story about Karen could be a key piece of what made this man tick, but it would have to wait for a future tête-à-tête—unless he was so spooked by all he’d revealed tonight that he cut her off cold.

  She had to reassure him the risk he’d taken was worthwhile . . . and appreciated.

  “Okay.” She called up the ghost of a smile. “I’m grateful you told me as much as you did. I know it can be tough to open up like that.”