A Cop's Honor. Emilie Rose

up some of the language. But it could be more. And software is the easiest way to find out what’s going on.”

      “You’re just paranoid because of your job chasing cyber criminals. But my son isn’t a criminal.” Then another thought dried her mouth. “He won’t be able to tell you logged in as him, will he?”

      “No. Think about a tracking program. It’s your best bet.”

      “No software. I want you to promise me you won’t do anything to violate his trust.”

      Frustration radiated from him, pleating his brows and making his shoulder muscles bunch. “Hannah, we’ve covered this.”

      “Promise me, Brandon. I want Mason to feel he can come to me with anything, and if I go behind his back he won’t feel that way.” She saw opposition in his face. “If you can’t make that promise, then leave and don’t come back. I have enough problems with the Leiths trying to undermine me. I don’t need you doing the same.”

      A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Fine, I agree. But only as long as I don’t think he’s in danger or a crime’s being committed. If I suspect either of those, then I’ll do whatever it takes to keep your son safe. I owe Rick that.”

      Mason wasn’t committing a crime. As his mother, she’d know if he was. Brandon’s half promise wasn’t the unconditional one she wanted, but it would have to do. “Okay.”

      “I’ll see you tomorrow. And while I’m here I’m going to check out the gutter over your garage. It’s sagging and it needs to be repaired before you have water damage.”

      He swung around and left the kitchen before she could protest. The old adage “give ’em an inch and they’ll take a mile” came to mind. She’d invited Brandon back into her life. She hoped she didn’t regret it.

      * * *

      BRANDON RETURNED HIS ladder to the bed of his truck on Sunday morning. He had come over early to work on Hannah’s gutter. As he’d suspected, the gutter repair was going to involve more than hammering a couple of nails. Good thing he’d gone ahead and brought the necessary materials.

      He bent to check his face in the side mirror and winced. The mug reflected back at him wouldn’t win any beauty contests. His right eye was swollen almost shut, his upper lip looked ready to burst and an assortment of other bulges puffed out his cheeks and chin. He gingerly touched the worst spot beneath his eye and swore. It hurt. Hell, his whole face hurt. But a promise was a promise. He hoped he didn’t scare Belle.

      He checked his watch. Hannah should be home from church any minute. As if on cue, her minivan came up the driveway. Hannah parked outside the garage. Mason bailed out of the side door, scowled in Brandon’s direction then did a double take and smirked. “How bad does the other guy look?”

      The kid thought he’d been in a fight. He decided to play along. “There were about fifty of them. And I’m still standing.”

      The boy’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.

      Hannah stopped as she rounded the hood, a horrified look on her face. A flowery sleeveless dress fluttered above her knees, displaying long, tanned legs. She looked good. Really good. He squashed that thought and noted that Belle wore an identical dress.

      “Fifty yellow jackets,” he elaborated. “They nest in the ground. I ran over their hole this morning with my lawn mower.”

      Belle tugged his hand and pointed at his face. “Does it hurt?”

      He wasn’t going to lie. “Yeah. But not as bad as it looks.”

      Hannah moved closer, concern puckering her forehead. “Have you removed the stingers?”

      “The ones I could reach.”

      “You have more?”

      “Some of the bast—buggers got in my shirt.”

      “Have you taken an antihistamine or put anything on the wounds?”

      “I didn’t have anything but antiseptic.”

      “I have a first-aid kit. Come inside. I’ll fix you up then you can go home.”

      “I promised to help paint, and I don’t break promises.” Except for the one he’d made to Rick. But he was righting that now. Hannah had reopened the door. He wouldn’t let her close it again.

      “I don’t think you should exert yourself.”

      “I’m fine, Hannah. I’m not allergic. Just ugly.”

      “Did you pour gas in the hole and set it on fire?” Mason asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

      Was Mason a firebug? That would suggest even bigger problems. “No. You have to do night ops to kill yellow jackets.”

      “How come?”

      “Yellow jackets return to their nest at dusk. After dark they can’t see as well and they’re less likely to attack. I’ll hit all of them at once with chemicals that’ll fog them to death.”

      “Can I watch?”

      Bloodthirsty little rascal.

      “No,” Hannah replied before Brandon could. “It’s a school night.” Ignoring Mason’s “Moooom,” she swung her gaze to Brandon. “Come inside.” He followed her in. “Wait in the den. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Mason, stay with Brandon and watch for...anything unusual. Belle, put on the painting clothes I laid out for you.” Hannah left. Two sets of footsteps ascended the stairs.

      Mason studied Brandon’s face as if he’d never seen anything like it before. “There are bites all over. You look like you’ve been beaten up.”

      “You ever been in a fight?”

      The boy’s expression turned defensive, cagey, putting Brandon on alert. “Maybe. You’re not going to like, die or something if I leave the room, are you? I’m hungry. I need a sandwich.”

      “Go ahead. If I was going to drop dead from anaphylaxis I’d have done it by now.”

      Mason headed for the kitchen. His actions confirming what Brandon suspected. The boy was evading providing a direct response. So Brandon followed him and leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you know how to defend yourself, Mason?”

      Wary blue eyes whipped his way. “Why?”

      “Because your dad didn’t. I had to teach him.”

      “Why?” he repeated and grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly from the fridge.

      “He was having trouble with a bully. I don’t like bullies.”

      Mason paused with his knife above the peanut butter jar while he mulled that over. “Would you teach me to fight?”

      “To fight? No. To defend yourself? Sure. There’s a big difference in the two. Hand-to-hand combat is always a last resort for when you have no other choice. It’s better to walk away if you can.”

      The answer earned him an eye roll. Mason returned to assembling his sandwich. “You’re only saying that cuz you’re a cop. I’d be called a pussy if I ran.”

      “Name-calling doesn’t break bones but fighting can. I’m saying it because you’re built like your dad. Not a lot of muscle yet. I don’t want you to get your butt kicked or to get suspended from school. You’ll have to use your brain instead of brawn.”

      Another eye roll.

      Hannah returned with a small box. She took in the situation. “Did you offer Brandon a sandwich?”

      “Want one?” Mason asked with his mouth full.

      “No, thanks. I ate before I came over.”

      Hannah aimed a dark look at her son for talking while chewing, then turned to Brandon. “Pills or cream? I’d recommend