Fleet Hospital. Anne Duquette Marie

      I should have stayed back at the compound, Jo thought. I’m not family. Michael’s in good hands here, surrounded by all this fancy pottery and stuff. Not only do my clothes clash with the decor, I do, too. I’ll have to remember to keep my mouth clean. I sounded like trailer trash yesterday swearing in front of Michael. Still, my intentions were good.

      She sighed once—a poor substitute for a good earthy curse word—slung her denim backpack with her gear and meager wardrobe over her shoulder, then headed for the cooked breakfast Sunshine had insisted she share.

      Michael and both parents were waiting as she hurried to the table.

      “You’re late,” Patrick remarked.

      “This isn’t the military, Patrick,” Sunshine rebuked softly as she turned a welcoming face Jo’s way. “Let’s make some allowances, shall we? Good morning, Jo.”

      Jo smiled at Sunshine. “Good morning, all.”

      “Morning.” Clad in military cammies, Michael rose from his chair to pull out hers and settle her in before a spread of fresh fruit, eggs—both real and substitute—toast and tofu sausage. “How’d you sleep?”

      “The room’s great. Thank you for putting me up, Mrs. McLowery. You really didn’t have to.”

      “Please, call me Sunshine,” she murmured, pouring everyone coffee. “And it was my pleasure. I’m so grateful Mac wasn’t alone yesterday.”

      Jo didn’t know what to say to that, so she reached for her orange juice and took a sip just as Patrick made the sign of the cross and started to say grace out loud. Nervously she set the glass down again.

      “You don’t pray, Miss Marche?” Patrick asked, lifting his coffee with arthritic fingers when the prayer was concluded.

      Sanctimonious old man. Jo decided to match his blunt words with her own. “As a kid I did, but our prayers were usually for more food. There was never enough to pray over if I wanted to eat before my brothers beat me to it. I lost the habit.”

      “So did Mac. My son stopped going to church a long time ago.” Patrick shook his head.

      “Dad, please,” Michael protested. “We have a guest.”

      “It’s okay,” Jo said. “Mr. McLowery, I’m not anti-prayer, especially after a day like yesterday. Michael could have used the services of the preacher. But he wouldn’t have anything to do with Reverend Preston—”

      “That’s because the bastard killed my daughter.”

      Dead silence struck the table.

      “What?” Jo said, aware that she’d just triggered some terrible memory, unveiled some painful family history. Michael threw his linen napkin onto his plate of eggs, tipping over his chair with a loud crash in the process. Before Jo’s horrified gaze, Patrick and Sunshine also rose.