Page 32 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

"I respect that," Dad said. He smiled now. "Terese was probably on a secret mission."

"Something like that."

"A secret mission," Dad repeated, "like you in London?"

Myron said nothing.

"What, you think we didn't know? You going to tell me what that was all about?"

Mom from the other room: "It was about that Moore kid who was rescued."

Dad turned toward the kitchen. "How long have you been listening in?"

"I just started," Mom said. "I totally missed the part where you threw me under the bus with that whole sad-fiancee thing."

The front door burst open in a way that signaled a teenager was entering. Mickey stomped through the door with Ema close behind him. He looked at Myron. "Hey, what are you doing here?"

Mickey was a terrible actor.

"Nice to see you too," Myron said. "Hi, Ema."

"Hey, Myron," Ema said.

Ema, the girl Dad described using the color black, was what they used to call goth and then they called emo (ergo the nickname), and Myron wasn't hip enough to know what they called it now. Everything was indeed in black against the palest white skin achievable. Mickey and Ema had started out as friends, best friends even, but somewhere through their bonding, Myron now wondered whether the friendship line had been crossed.

Mickey gave his grandfather a kiss on the cheek. He turned to his grandmother and said, "You look beautiful, Grandma."

"Don't call me that."

"Call you what?"

"Grandma. I told you. I'm too young to be your grandmother. Call me Ellen. And if anyone asks, tell them I'm your grandfather's second, much-younger trophy wife."

"Got it," Mickey said.

"Now give your Ellen a kiss."

He hopped up the step into the kitchen. Whenever Mickey moved, the house shook. He gave her a kiss and a hug. Myron watched, swallowing hard. Then Mickey turned toward Myron.

"Are you crying?" Mickey asked.

"No," Myron said.

"Why is he crying?" Mickey turned to his grandmother. "Why is he always crying?"

"He's always been an emotional boy; pay no attention."

"I'm not crying," Myron said. He looked around the room and found no solace. "I got something in my eye."

"I need someone to help me set the table," Mom said.

Mickey said, "I got it."

"No," Mom said. "I want Ema to help me."

"I'd love to, Mrs. Bolitar," Ema said.

"Ellen," Mom said, correcting her. "So are you and Mickey a thing now? What do the kids say? Dating? Hooking up?"

Mickey was mortified. "Grandma!"

"Oh, never mind, Ema, his reaction tells me all. Isn't it cute when they turn red?"

Ema, who looked equally mortified, shuffled her way into the kitchen. Dad said, "I better stay with them. Just in case."

He left Myron and Mickey alone in the den.

"I got your text," Mickey said.

"I figured. Do you think you can help?"

"I do. I think Ema can help too."

"How?"

"We have a plan," Mickey said.

Chapter 22

The press was gone from Nancy Moore's house.

Myron didn't know if that came from a media decision to respect the family's request for privacy or from news cycles being so short or from the fact that there was no new kindling for the coverage fire. Probably a combination of all three, but either way, Myron was grateful. It was eight P.M. when he pulled into the driveway and knocked on the door.

Nancy Moore opened the door with a glass of white wine in her hand. "It's late," she said.

"Sorry," Myron said. "I would have called."

"It's been a long day."

"I know."

"I wouldn't have even opened the door except . . ."

He knew. She still felt obligated. "Look, I need to talk t

o you for just a few moments." Myron looked past her into the house. "Is Hunter here?"

"No. He drove back to Pennsylvania tonight."

"That's where he lives?"

She nodded. "He's been there since the divorce."

Myron looked at the FOR SALE sign. "You're moving too?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Same."

"Pennsylvania?"

"I don't want to be rude here, Myron."

He held up a hand. "Can I just come in for a moment?"

She grudgingly moved out of the way. Myron stepped inside and pulled up when he saw the young woman standing by the foot of the steps.

"This is my daughter, Francesca," Nancy said.

Myron almost made the standard "you mean sister" line, but he bit back the flattery. He hadn't really noticed the strong resemblance during the TV interview, but he had been otherwise distracted. If a potential spouse wanted to know what Francesca would look like in twenty-five years, Nancy left very little to the imagination.

"Francesca, this is Mr. Bolitar."

"Call me Myron," Myron said. "Hi, Francesca."

She blinked away tears. Had the tears been there before?

"Thank you," she said with sincerity that almost made him turn away. Francesca hurried over to Myron. She gave him a brief albeit fierce hug. "Thank you," she said again.

"You're welcome," Myron said.

Nancy rubbed her daughter's shoulder and gave her a gentle smile. "Do you mind going upstairs and checking on your brother? Mr. Bolitar and I need to talk."

"Sure," Francesca said. She took Myron's hand in both of hers. "It was really nice to meet you."

"You too."

Nancy watched her head up the stairs. She waited until she was out of sight before she said, "She's a good kid."

"She seems it."

"Very sensitive. Cries at the smallest thing."

"I think that's a good quality," Myron said.

"I guess. But when her brother disappeared . . ." Nancy didn't finish the thought. She shook her head and closed her eyes. "If Patrick had died in that tunnel, if you hadn't gotten to him in time . . ." Again there was no need to finish the thought.

"Can I ask you something straight out?" Myron asked.

"I guess."

"Are you positive that the boy upstairs is Patrick?"

She made a face. "You asked me that before."

"I know."

"So why do you keep asking me that? I already told you. I'm certain."

"How can you be?"

"Pardon?"

"It's been ten years. He was a little boy when he was taken."

She put her hands on her hips. There was a hint of impatience in her tone now. "This is why you're here?"

"No."

"Then you better get to it. It's getting late."

"Tell me about your texts with Chick Baldwin."

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