The Man Behind The Mask. Barbara Hannay

the light of the kitchen, Brendan could see a knob growing alarmingly on Nora’s forehead. She was wet and covered in mud.

      And Brendan Grant was surprised there was a part of him that still knew the right thing to do. And was prepared to do it.

      “The cat will have to wait,” he heard himself say firmly, in the tone of voice he used on the construction site when a carpenter was insisting something couldn’t be done the way he wanted it done.

      And the people in the room reacted about the same way. Deedee swung her head and glared at him. Nora looked none too happy, either.

      “I want to take a look at you,” he insisted. “If you don’t need a trip to the emergency ward, you certainly need a shower and a change of clothes before you check out the cat.”

      “I can have a look at the cat first.”

      So she wanted what he wanted. For this to be quick. Look at the cat. Tell them what they all already knew about Charlie’s prospects for a future. Of course, what they wanted parted ways at finding out who was guilty of taking money from Deedee, and what the consequences were going to be.

      Still, handled properly, the whole drama could unfold and conclude in about two minutes, in and out.

      Heavy on the out part. He wanted to head home and go back to bed.

      His old life—that cave that was comforting in its lack of intensity, in its palette of grays—beckoned to him. But it seemed to him that nothing was going to go quite as he wanted.

      Which he hated in and of itself. Because one thing Brendan Grant wanted, in a world that had already scorned his need for it, was control.

      “You first, then the cat,” he told Nora.

      Deedee, in typical fashion, appeared annoyed that her agenda was being moved to the back of the line. But Nora looked annoyed, too. It told him a lot about her when she folded her arms over his coat.

      Independent. Possibly newly so. No one was going to tell her what to do. Brendan wondered again what the pajamas she was so determined to hide looked like.

      “You already told me you aren’t a doctor,” Nora said.

      “Doctor or not, a head injury is nothing to take lightly. They can be sneaky and deadly. It will just take me a minute to look at you.”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Deadly?” The boy got a panicky pinched look around his eyes. “Let him look at you!”

      Nora, seeing his distress, surrendered, sinking onto a kitchen chair with ill grace.

      “That was quite a hit to your head. Do you think you were knocked out?” Brendan moved close, brushed her hair away from the rapidly growing bump.

      Every part of her seemed to be either wet or covered with mud. How was it her hair felt like silk?

      “I’m fine.”

      “That’s not what I asked,” he said mildly.

      “I don’t think I was knocked out.” She offered this grumpily.

      “But you can’t say for sure?”

      She didn’t want to admit it, but Brendan could tell she didn’t remember, which was probably not a good sign.

      Nora knew what date it was, her full name and her birthday. He noted that she was twenty-six, though she looked younger. He also noted, annoyed, that he was interested in her age.

      And apparently her marital status. There was no ring on her finger, no signs—large shoes, men’s magazines, messes—that would indicate there was any male besides the boy in residence.

      Brendan hated that he was awake enough to notice those things, to wonder at her history, what had brought her and her nephew to this remote corner of British Columbia.

      Doing his best to detach, he asked more questions. She remembered what had happened right before she was knocked down and right after, though she did not remember precisely what had knocked her down. She could follow the movement of his finger with her eyes.

      “You seem fine,” he finally decided, but he felt uneasy. A concussion really was nothing to fool around with.

      “She is fine,” Deedee snapped. “Meanwhile, Charlie could be expiring.”

      “I’ll just have a quick look at the cat,” Nora said.

      “He’s lasted this long. I’m sure he can wait another five minutes. you need to go have a shower and put on something dry.”

      “Are you always this bossy?”

      He ignored her. “If you feel dizzy or if you vomit, or feel like you’re going to be sick, you need to tell me right away. Or Luke after I leave. You may have to get to the hospital yet tonight.”

      She looked as if she was going to protest. And then she glanced down at herself, and surprised him by giving in without a fight.

      “All right. Luke, come with me for a minute. You can see if you can find a shirt that will fit Mr. Grant. He’s soaked.”

      That explained her easy acquiescence. She was going to go talk it over with the kid. They were going to get their stories straight and figure out who had done what.

      Brendan already knew precisely what she was going to do. She had already started to set it up when she’d said the money had been taken by accident, mistaken for a donation. She was going to take the blame.

      Personally, Brendan was strongly leaning toward the conclusion her nephew had done it. How could she possibly think that not letting him accept responsibility was going to do the boy any good?

      “Brendan?”

      He turned to Deedee, impatient. Was she really going to insist that cat come first again? She did love to have her own way, largely oblivious to the larger picture.

      “I’m not feeling well,” she said.

      He scanned her face. she loved to be the center of attention. But the fear he saw was real.

      “My heart’s beating too fast,” she whispered.

      He crossed the room and lifted her frail wrist. Her pulse was going crazy. She searched his face, ready to panic, and he forced himself to smile.

      “Let’s make it a double header,” he said. “We’ll take you to the hospital and they can check out Nora at the same time.”

      He cast Nora a look.

      Her protest died on her lips as she read his face and then glanced at Deedee.

      “You’re right,” she said. “I think I need to go to the hospital.”

CHAPTER FIVE

      AT HIS AUNT’S declaration, panic twisted the boy’s features, but only for a second. He took in the situation in the room, his gaze lingering on Deedee. Brendan saw calm come to him, almost as if he had breathed in the truth.

      “What about Charlie?” Deedee half whispered, half sobbed. “I can’t leave him! Not when he’s—”

      The steadiness remained in the boy’s eyes as he looked to Brendan and then his aunt. “I got the cat,” he said, and Deedee relaxed noticeably, slumped against Brendan.

      Ninety-two. Deedee could die right now. She could go before the cat. Life liked to put ironic little twists in the story line.

      Becky, young and healthy, gone at twenty-six. To this day, it seemed impossible.

      A week before she had died, she had said to him, out of the blue, “If I die first, I’ll come back and let you know I’m all right.”

      “You won’t be all