Not surprisingly, the information leaked out to the newspapers several months ago.â
âHow did the authorities know it was Jason who killed Christopher?â
âSix months ago, he was arrested for killing his girlfriend. The murder was witnessed by a local reporter. That was when his real identity became known and the link to Christopherâs murder was made. Unfortunately, Jason escaped custody while awaiting trial for his girlfriendâs murder and later managed to kidnap Lily. Though the FBI team rescued Lily, Jason escaped with the ransom money, killing an agent in the process.â
The piece of roll in Lindaâs fingers crumbled. âWas Emmett part of that FBI team?â
âYes. He wants to stop his brother as muchâmore, Iâm sureâthan anyone.â
âButâbutââ One agent on the team had already been killed. Jason Jamison had already murdered one of his brothers. What if Emmett was hurt? What if Emmettâ¦?
That dangerous flood of emotions filled her again. Concern, fear, a sharp pang of grief that had no place for a man who was still alive. For a man she barely knew.
But what if something happened to Emmett?
Linda tried pushing back the welling feelings, but they werenât under her control. Her body trembled and she felt that sting of tears once again in her eyes.
âNan, Iâ¦â Linda swallowed, trying to strengthen her voice so that she could get out some excuse. Any excuse that would take her out of the house and away from the other woman before she guessed that Lindaâs recovery was shaky at best. She had to get well, be well, because she owed so much to everyone and she had so much to take charge of, includingâ
âRicky!â Nan exclaimed, a smile in her voice. âRickyâs home. Look, there he is, out in the garden.â
âRicky?â Had so much time passed? Linda blinked away the incipient tears to check her watch. âItâs only one oâclock.â
âMinimum day,â Nan replied. Her fond gaze was directed out the window. âHeâs growing like a weed, donât you think?â
Linda stared through the glass at the boy. Her son. He was looking taller than before, she supposed. His arms and fingers long, too. âI saw him on traffic patrol duty Friday,â she said.
He was fooling around with that ubiquitous Hacky Sack he always seemed to carry. His blond hair rippled as he bounced the little ball up and down on the inner surface of his foot. Two butterflies flew into the picture he made, their yellow wings as bright as the little boyâs hair. Their fluttering movements were almost as uneven as the new beat of her pounding heart.
He was beautiful, that little boy.
Her son.
The thought was almost too much. The flood that sheâd been holding out against threatened to break down the gates sheâd erected. She squeezed shut her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them.
And now with the boy was the man. The golden boy was smiling up at the dark-haired man, at Emmett, who reached through those circling butterflies to ruffle the yellow silk of Rickyâs hair. The gesture was friendly and tender andâ¦perfect.
Perfectly suited to crash those gates and let in the flood that filled her with emotions that were hard to identify and harder even to breathe through. Concern, sympathy, uncertainty, fear.
Her son with half a parent.
Emmett with a damaged family.
âLinda, dear.â Nan pressed a fresh napkin into Lindaâs hand. âYouâre crying.â
She lifted her hand to her wet face, then looked away from the tableau outside the window to face Nan. She couldnât cover this up. âIâm sorry. Itâs the head injury again. They call it flooding. I wish I didnât feel so much but Iâ¦I canât help it.â
Nan gave her a gentle smile. âNobodyâs rushing you, Linda. No one expects you to be anything or anyone