No End in Sight. Dana Mentink
line of duty when she was nine.
After Tyrone had broken her down, she’d come to enjoy spending time with him, and now they met every week to photograph birds, his favorite pastime. At least, they had…until he’d fallen off the radar two weeks ago.
“You have what he wants,” Tyrone whispered.
“What?”
There was a sharp intake of breath. “Can’t talk now. Lock yourself in. I’ll—”
“Tyrone?” Valerie cried into the phone.
There was no answer.
After a long pause, the phone disconnected.
“He rents a house in Sherman,” Valerie said, as they drove down the mountain and toward the small town nestled on the outskirts of the national forest.
Jackson was still surprised she’d agreed to go with him instead of charging full speed ahead on her own. “We should call the police.”
“We will, as soon as I make sure he’s all right. Hurry, Jackson.”
She stared out the window, hands balled in her lap.
He let his thoughts churn wildly. The love and loyalty Tyrone inspired in her was inexplicable. He seemed to be ever in search of a free meal and a couch to nap on. Jackson had never trusted the guy and Valerie knew it. But Valerie excused all his foibles. Because he was family.
She didn’t speak of her three foster homes very often. He knew that her father, a San Francisco firefighter, had died in a flashover, leaving no close family to care for Valerie. Since the age of nine she’d been a ward of the state, her life overseen by social workers. There was no abuse, no neglect in any of the placements, but neither had there been a family where she felt she belonged. And she wanted that desperately. He’d never glimpsed that overwhelming vulnerability in the accomplished woman who could climb up a forty-foot pine and manage a crew of tree trimmers with ease. But it was there, hidden deep down like the precious heartwood of a tree.
Maybe someday the scars would seal over with enough healthy layers that she could look forward to a proper future. Something faintly like hope stirred inside him as he regarded the delicate lines of her profile.
The words she’d spoken at the hospital months before came back.
I don’t love you, Jackson.
He wished he could have said the same, but it would have been a lie then.
And now.
They turned onto the quiet street where Tyrone’s rented house sat forlornly under a sprawling oak.
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