Page 68 of Luke, The Profiler

“If you’re talking about Kels—”

“Actually, I’m not. You haven’t been back to Gobbler Gulch, Kentucky since your old man took you away when you were just a kid, have you?”

Her face closed up. “Stop, Luke.”

“Stop what?”

“You’re not talking about Klaus von Krummacher. He could never be considered family.”

“Hell, no. That bastard’s been frying in hell for about a decade. No, I’m talking about his wife, Ramona. Your grandmother.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Well, well. So that was what the great Eden Steadfast looked like when she was speechless.

“She’s quite the lovely, genteel little lady of a bygone Southern era, as you might expect,” I went on while she continued to stare at me. “Thin as a rail and reminded me of a photo I’d seen of your mother, Romy. I got the feeling that Miss Ramona—that’s what she wanted me to call her—wasn’t exactly the type of woman who knew how to stand up to a stiff breeze, much less a domineering man like Klaus. I’d be willing to bet he made her life a living hell.”

“She didnothingwhen that man threw her pregnant teenaged daughter out into the streets with just the clothes on her back,” she finally managed, an unyielding rage simmering in her tone. She jutted her chin in a stubborn way that ol’ Klaus probably would have admired, and maybe even recognized. “She didnothingwhen Klaus hunted down wherever my mother had found work and got her fired. She didnothingwhen we went hungry because my mother refused to let me go, the way Ramona let go of her. She didnothing, except treat her own daughter like she wasnothing.”

“I suspect letting her daughter go destroyed poor Ramona,” I said gently, and watched the words take root as her stony expression softened a fraction. “And she did what she could to help you and your mother survive. Don’t you remember anything about her?”

“My mother and I came across her a few times when we were out in the woods gathering kindling for the fire so we wouldn’t freeze to death. I remember an older lady with a coat that had a fox fur collar on it, and my mother telling me to call her Grandma. But by then I’d already learned that grandparents were monstrous people who wanted to tear me and my mother apart, so I refused to say even a single word to her.”

“Your grandmother would arrange to meet up with Romy to give her whatever money she could get by selling off trinkets or jewelry she thought Klaus wouldn’t miss. When Romy died and you went missing, she assumed Driscoll had killed you first and buried you in the woods somewhere before killing your mother, because your body had never been found. That’s what everyone assumed. When I told her that you were alive and well—”

“Youdid? Why the hell would you do a crazy thing like that?”

“When I told her that you were alive and well,” I continued determinedly, “she burst into heart-wrenching sobs and told me that her prayers had finally been answered. She never forgot you, Eden. What’s more, you know how she feels since you just said it yourself—you are now the only family she has left. Can you imagine the joy she must’ve felt when she learned she wasn’t completely alone in the world?”

Eden was quiet for so long I began to believe she wasn’t going to say anything. Then she slid me an uncertain glance. “She really helped us?”

I nodded. “Obviously Ramona wasn’t strong like you or Romy, but she did what she could because there was love there. Love for her daughter, and for you.”

“Wise protector,” she whispered as her eyes began to fill once more. She bit her lip and looked away, clearly trying to get a handle on her chaotic emotions. “In Old German, Ramona meanswise protector. I never thought it suited her. Or… or me.”

I waited a beat, then caught her chin and brought her tear-drowned gaze back to me. “Ramona?”

Her nod was so slight I almost missed it. “That’s me. Ramona von Krummacher. The girl who didn’t save her mother. The waif pickpocket who nearly ruined an innocent man’s life by lifting his wallet. The girl who became a murderer at the age of eight. I never deserved to be called a wise protector.”

“You don’t know Ramona the way I know Ramona,” I chided, smiling as she listed off her supposed sins. “She’s the little girl who learned the meaning of thousands of names just so she could make people feel special about themselves. She’s the one who returned a wallet she stole because she had enough moral courage to do what was right, even if it meant she’d be punished. That same moral courage has given her a belief in karma—that whatever she puts out there in the world will be returned to her. This belief shows what a good person she is, because no one who believes in karma is capable of acting selfishly. She also has a compulsive instinct to try to help anyone she comes across, whether it’s some dude who needs help in getting his life—and house—cleaned up, to a frazzled woman whose baby upchucked all over her, and she didn’t even stick the woman with the cleaning bill.”

“Aha.” She sniffed and slid me a spectacular side-eye. “I see you talked to Amanda’s mother. How’s the baby, by the way? All better?”

“Mm-hm, all better and learning to walk. Apparently her new favorite thing is getting into every cabinet she comes across. Her mother’s so stressed she was in tears.”

“I get the feeling Amanda’s mother is in tears a lot.”

“The point is, you helped that woman when she needed it. Whether your name is Ramona or Eden, you always try to leave people in a better place than when you found them. And it’s not because that’s your job,” I preempted her when she opened her mouth to no doubt say that very thing. “You didn’t choose to be a life coach because that was what your conman of a father taught you to be in order to fleece the rubes. You went out and got a degree in psychology so you could be better at helping people. Then you got all the certifications necessary on top of that, just to make sure you knew what you were doing. Why? Because you know you’re good at reading people and seeing what they need in their lives to make those lives better. Helping people is who you are. You’re not just a wise protector, genius. You’re a miracle worker—mymiracle worker, and I’m never going to let you go.”

“Don’t,” she whispered, her breath hitching, but this time the tears sheening her eyes had nothing to do with heartbreak. “Don’t ever let me go, okay? I’m totally good with sitting here forever on your lap and ignoring the world and all its misery.”

I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know she was talking about her father. Too bad that was one misery I couldn’t figure out how to avoid. “I won’t let you go, love. And you’re not ever going to let go of me. I won’t allow it.”

That earned me a faint chuckle. “You won’t allow it, huh? Tough guy.”

“Fuck, yeah, I am.” I grabbed her chin to make her fully face me so she could see this was no laughing matter. “When it comes to you and me, I’m the toughest sonofabitch around. Mark my words as truth, woman—you won’t let go of me, and I won’t let go of you. No matter what happens down the road, that’s just fucking that. Swear it.”

Confusion filled her eyes. “Luke—”

“Swear it, Eden. I’m not dicking around with this.”

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