Those final two words still echoing in the air, Dad extended a palm-out hand toward me, presumably lobbying I forget I’d heard them.
Then he caught Mom’s glare and extended the other palm-out hand toward her.
“Sorry, Cat. It slipped out. But I can’t be sorry it did,” he said.
I tried. “I don’t know…”
Mom arched her brows. “You were better at that look of innocent confusion as a teenager, Elizabeth.”
“I had more practice then.”
She chuckled. “Oh, yes, you did. A great deal of practice.”
I sank to the couch, facing them as they still stood in the kitchen. With the difference in our heights from these positions, it felt like old times — me as the kid, them as the adults. I sat straight, but didn’t let myself stand. I didn’t need that to be a grownup.
“Mel, I presume,” I said, passably calm.
Mel Welch was a lawyer in Chicago who’d stepped in as my agent, despite no experience in that area, out of concern for me.
More germane to this discussion, he was married to my mother’s cousin’s oldest daughter. He adored and feared my mother in equal parts.
“Mel?” Mom’s innocent confusion wasn’t any better than mine.
I ignored it. “How long?”
Dad finally dropped his hands and took one of the chairs facing the couch. “Late last summer.”
“Did Mel know he gave it away?”
Mom sat in the other chair. “Not a clue, the poor dear. But, then, with that matter involving Bunny—”
Someone I’d known as a kid whom I’d encountered at Yellowstone Park the previous fall. Not a happy reunion for either of us. If she’d blabbed to my parents, I would have no reluctance—
“—it was so obvious it would have been ridiculous to carry on pretending.”
“Mel crumbled under the strain of your mother’s asking what he was keeping from her. Like an avalanche started by dynamite.”
“It was for his own good,” Mom said. “He couldn’t take the strain any longer. You know how he is.”
I knew how he was around her, anyway. She was probably right about the strain on Mel. The question was when to let him know I knew Mom and Dad knew… Decisions, decisions.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I looked from Dad to Mom.
She folded her hands. “Because you didn’t want us to know.”
She made it a statement of fact. And that’s what it was — a fact.
Yet I felt their hurt behind it. I’d expected worry, concern, fear if they ever found out — and those were all there, beneath the surface. I hadn’t expected the hurt.
“I didn’t want you to worry.” Or tell me not to. Or lecture me. Or swoop in and try to stop me. Or otherwise treat me like a delicate, not-too-bright child.
Mom and Dad exchanged a look. “We know, Maggie Liz,” Dad said.
“Not knowing is more worrying than knowing,” Mom said. “You’re our child and we love you. We’ll never stop worrying about you. Just as we worry about each other.”
Just as we worry about each other…
That gave me a new angle. As if I’d been standing in front of a painting and it pivoted to a side view, showing the foundation lines of the composition and the brushstrokes that created it. They did worry about each other. On the other hand, they didn’t try to prevent each other from doing what they wanted. Not much, anyway.
“I’m very good at this.” No blurt alert warned me those words were coming.
“We know. We’ve seen the special reports you’ve shared with Mel. And we’re not the least bit surprised.” Mom tipped her head slightly. “Are you?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“You and your friends do this together?” Dad’s worry leaked out, along with the hope that a former Chicago Bear and a Lincoln-esque rancher would protect me.
“Yes.” I wouldn’t mention the protection often turned out mutual. “There’s no reason to be worried. We’re investigating. It’s not like we’re involved in gun battles.” Although there’d been a time or two… “We’re asking questions, talking to people is all.”
“All,” she repeated. “And by doing that you’ve discovered a number of murderers.”
“Yes.” Were they not going to argue I should quit this? Was I setting up for a fall by starting to hope…
“And now there’s another, uh, situation you’re asking questions about, this shooting a few days ago.”
“Yes.” I explained briefly, including Tamantha’s charge to fix it.
“What you’re doing,” Mom asked, “will help Tom and ease Tamantha’s concern?”
“I hope so.”
“We hope so, too.”
I blinked. Not quite ready to believe.
Mom unfolded her hands and pressed the palms to her knees. I remembered Mom’s mother doing that as a precursor to standing up, especially as she got older and her knees bothered her.
Her knees bothered her?
But Mom’s—
“We’ll get settled. We won’t get in your way. In fact, we can help. Your dad saw bushes in back he felt needed trimming—”
“Among other things.”
“—and I’ll cook something for your dinner.”
Mom rose lithely, and I let out a breath. Her knees were fine.
We were fine.
It would take getting used to.