Page 36 of Hank

"No, you texted me."

"I didn’t text you either."

"Well, check your phone, because I got a text from someone saying they were you."

"My phone’s in the charging stand in the kitchen." She frowned and held out her hand. "Let me see the number it came from."

"Collin has my phone."

Her hand dropped as she looked toward the stairs, then back at him.

"Why?"

"He said he needed to use it to find his."

"He neverdoesn’thave…" Her head snapped toward the stairs again. "Oh, I don’t like this," she said, rushing past him and up the steps.

Hank followed after Jo, but a little slower. But he quickened his pace and took the stairs two at a time when she began pulling and wiggling on the handle and banging on the door.

"Collin Ashton Webster," she hollered through the space between the frame and the door. "This is your mother, and I’mtelling you right now to unlock this door." He listened for any sounds coming from the kitchen, while Jo stomped her foot and hollered again, "And I meanrightnow."

"Mom," came a muffled reply. "You and Dr. Lawton like each other."

"A lot," came from Willow, while Jo’s shoulder’s tensed.

"Collin, I?—"

"I want you to think about yourself for once," her son interrupted. "I want you to be happy."

"Son, Iamhappy."

"But you could be happier. And I think Dr. Lawton can make that happen." Another silence followed. "We’ll be back at three o’clock."

"Three o’clock?That’s…" She lifted her wrist like she was expecting to find a watch.

"It’s a couple of hours."

A glare shot his way as she dropped her wrist, before she huffed and faced the door again, then slapped her hand hard on it several times. "Collin?" Nothing. "Collin…" Still no response.

"I don’t think he’s there."

His comment garnered him another, decidedly dirty, narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder, before she once more faced the door and slammed her fists on her hips.

"I can’t believe my own son did this to me."

"I can."

And there went that glare over her shoulder again. He was three for three.

"What’sthatsupposed to mean?" she asked, slowly turning in place, before staring down at him from the upper steps with what you might call a stink eye.

"He’s your son." Was he digging at her on purpose. At this point, absolutely. Because, seriously, it was pretty damned funny.

"Yes." A dark blond eyebrow raised. "And I’ll ask again, what’s that supposed to mean?"

"He’s like you in a lot of ways. Smart, resourceful, astute, speaks his own mind."

The beginnings of a smile touched her lips.

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