With Child. Janice Johnson Kay

a luncheon for some club she belonged to. From the minute she’d arrived, Mindy looked sulky and even younger than usual.

      The Howies were here, too, of course, Nancy looking much as she had at the wedding except for the sadness on her sweet, soft face, and for the tremor that affected not just her voice but her hands. Every time Quinn looked at her, she held them clasped together, as if one could control the other. Parkinson’s?

      George, in contrast, seemed to have aged ten years in one. A thick head of graying hair had turned white and fine, a dandelion puff instead of strong sod. His shoulders stooped, and his knuckles had become gnarled. Quinn had felt the difference, when they’d gripped hands in greeting and grief.

      Now the first clod of dirt was flung atop the casket. Quinn shuddered and felt Mindy do the same beside him. A cry escaped her lips. He laid a hand on her back and she gave him one wild look before turning back to the raw earth and shining cobalt-blue casket. Her mother had somehow managed to be standing on the other side of Sergeant Dickerson, who had been heavily paternal in response to her dabbing a tissue at the corner of her eye.

      As the crowd broke up, she turned immediately and took in her daughter’s ravaged face. Her own froze. Laying a hand on Dickerson’s massive arm, she turned toward the parking lot without waiting for Mindy. The Howies hesitated, then started on their own toward the cars.

      Quinn had no objection to hanging back, although he frowned at the few scattered rhododendrons rather than letting himself look again into the hole.

      Finally Mindy let out a deep sigh and turned in a confused way as if unsure where to go. He took her elbow, pointed her in the right direction, and they followed the stream of mourners returning to their cars. Unfortunately, they still had to face the reception to be held in a hall at the church, where everyone would want to say a few words.

      She lurched and almost went down. Quinn’s grip saved her. He hoisted her upright.

      “I’m sorry! My ankle turned.”

      He looked down at her spiky white heels.

      “You could have worn flat shoes.”

      “These are the only white ones I have,” she said, as if that was any kind of answer.

      “Black is traditional, you know.”

      “But Dean hated black. Didn’t you know that?”

      In fact Quinn, who wore black much of the time, hadn’t known that. The minute she pointed it out, though, he realized Dean had tended to wear bright colors and chinos rather than dark slacks.

      “He…” Her voice faltered. “He’d have rather seen me in white than black.”

      All right. So she meant well. Her appearance still wouldn’t play well with the older cops and much of the viewing public, who—thanks to the ever-present news cameras—would see a sprite who appeared to dress out of the Victoria’s Secret catalog weeping at graveside and flashing a hell of a lot of leg on tonight’s local news.

      But he forbore to tell her that.

      “You want to go by the house so you can, uh, touch up your makeup before we go back to the church?”

      “I don’t know. I don’t care.” She paused. “I suppose.”

      While he waited in the living room, she disappeared for about two minutes. When she came back, her face was still puffy but clean, and she’d renewed her mascara.

      “I’m ready.”

      He nodded and they let themselves out the front door. She sat in silence beside him as he drove. Not until they pulled into the parking lot did she let out a broken sigh.

      “Dean would have liked an Irish wake. A celebration, not…”

      She didn’t have to finish. He knew what she meant. Not a lament, a ceremony to share regrets.

      “Yeah,” he agreed. “Maybe when we’re ready.”

      They exchanged a rare glance of accord before getting out of the car, standing side by side looking at the open door to the hall, and—in his case, at least—gathering composure.

      Her ankle turned in those damn silly shoes on the steps leading down to the daylight basement reception rooms. Once again, he grabbed her in the nick of time. Shaking his head, he led her in a meandering route among the mourners so she could accept their condolences. Her tears returned within minutes and the mascara began to run again.

      Half the Seattle police force was here, of course, but also plenty of people Quinn either didn’t know or had a feeling he’d met once or twice. Dean had had a lot of friends. Maybe some of them were casual golf buddies, but they’d cared enough to show up at his funeral, decked in dark suits and ties, on a sunny Saturday perfect for golfing.

      “You’re Quinn?” some of them said, shaking his hand. “He talked about you. Said he hoped you’d end up his partner in the security business someday.”

      Despite the spasm of pain he felt every time he thought of Dean, Quinn managed a crooked smile. “He knew I’d never quit the force, but he was too stubborn to take no for an answer.”

      One of them grinned. “Yeah, hell, he made us play thirty-six holes one day last September even though it was eighty-six degrees, because he couldn’t get a handle on his slice and he was too damn stubborn to quit.” The grin faded as the friend remembered he’d never watch Dean Fenton take a swing with his three wood again. “He bought us a round afterward.”

      Quinn made time to talk to the Howies, who reminded him about some of Dean’s more outlandish exploits when he was their foster son, then hugged Mindy, asked Quinn not to be a stranger and left. Frowning, he watched them go, George stooped like an old man and Nancy with the shakes she’d told him with one stern glance not to mention. Not today.

      Mindy, Quinn realized reluctantly, wasn’t the only obligation he’d just inherited. Dean had been, for all practical purposes, the Howies’ son, the one who remembered their fiftieth wedding anniversary and sent them for a weekend to the Empress in Victoria, the one who called unexpectedly, who made sure they were all right. He hadn’t mentioned Nancy’s tremors, maybe because he hadn’t thought Quinn would care.

      But, damn it, he did care, whether he wanted to or not. The thought made him uncomfortable. An obligation. That’s all he had to think of them as. Dean would expect him to step in.

      With no booze being served, the crowd trickled away fairly fast. Mindy, Quinn saw, looked skim-milk pale and on the verge of collapse as she thanked people for coming. He looked around for her mother but didn’t spot her.

      At Mindy’s side, he said, “I think we can leave now.”

      “Really?” Her gaze went past him and she gave a shaky smile at someone behind him. “Thank you so much for coming today.”

      The couple, who looked vaguely familiar to Quinn, said a few kind words about Dean and left.

      “Where’s your mother?”

      “Gone.” Again she looked past him, and her eyes filled with tears. “Selene! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.”

      Selene wore a sleeveless white sweater and a flowery skirt that swirled to her calves. Her wild dark curls were barely subdued by a barrette. He made a private bet that she was a college student.

      After the two women hugged, Mindy turned to him. “Quinn, this is my best friend, Selene Thomas. She’s a grad student at the UW.”

      He nodded and said by rote, “Thanks for coming today.”

      Big dark eyes filled with tears. “Dean was such a sweetie.”

      The two hugged and commiserated some more while Quinn shifted from foot to foot. He just wanted to get the hell out of here. Maybe take a run, or go to the gym. He wanted to work himself into mindless exhaustion. Maybe then he’d sleep tonight.

      “Selene is going