A Cop's Honor. Emilie Rose
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with Mason if he wanted the boy to trust him enough to confide in him. Putting some distance between him and Hannah wasn’t a bad idea, either.
Three hours confined to the same small room with her had totally screwed with his usual ability to block out distractions. He’d been aware of every move she made, every sigh and every sound. The only time he’d been able to relax was when she’d left the room to check on Mason. Even then he’d wanted to follow and observe her interaction with the boy to see if the kid was hiding something. But he was trying to respect the boundaries she’d marked.
He finished washing up the painting gear and debated going home. But he had a job to do, and cutting corners on an investigation had never been his way of dealing with complications. He stored the materials in the garage and reentered the house. He found Hannah in the den standing behind the sofa and reading the laptop screen over her son’s shoulder.
“I need Mason for an hour.”
She turned, a furrow between her brows. “For what?”
“To help me remove your sagging gutter then replace the fascia board and paint it.”
“Do I have to?” Mason asked with a put-upon expression.
“If you help, you get to use my nail gun.”
Mason perked up. “For real?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Hannah replied simultaneously and shot Brandon then Mason a dark look. “Nail guns are dangerous and you are not allowed on the roof.”
“Mooooom.”
Hannah ignored her son’s protest and turned back to Brandon. “I don’t have the board, and the building supply stores close early on Sunday. Maybe we should call it a night.”
She wanted to get rid of him. Not happening. “I brought the materials with me, and Mason can do what I need from the ladder. No need to get on the roof. And I wouldn’t let him use the nail gun if I couldn’t teach him how to use it safely.”
Reservations filled her eyes. “Brandon, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Hannah, he’ll be fine. Trust me.”
The corners of her lips turned down.
Belle tugged his hand. “What can I do, Occifer Brandon? I want to help, too.”
He couldn’t help but smile at those big, earnest eyes. “You can make sure we rehang the board straight when we get to that part.”
Belle nodded enthusiastically. “I can do that.”
He glanced at Hannah and caught a look of such unadulterated love in her eyes for her daughter that it made his chest ache. He’d seen the same look in Rick’s eyes—like he thought his kids were miracles. Brandon had never felt that way about anyone and wasn’t sure he wanted to. Seemed like keeping a door open for pain and disappointment to slip in. He shook off the negative thought.
“Whatdaya say, Mason? We’re burning daylight.”
The boy bounded off the sofa, ditching the laptop with no reservations. He wouldn’t have done that if he had something on it to hide. He raced to the garage.
“Stay off the roof,” Hannah called after him.
Brandon stepped closer to Hannah and bent his head so Belle wouldn’t overhear. “You asked for my help, remember? Let me do what I do best.”
“But—”
“The only way I’ll get him to open up is by spending time with him and building a rapport.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
Brandon tracked after Mason. When he reached the garage, the boy rolled his eyes. “She treats me like a baby.”
“Get used to it, kid. I’m thirty-two and my mom still does the same thing.”
“For real? But you’re a cop.”
“Moms only do it because they love us. And your mom has to be mother and father for you, so she’s trying twice as hard to be a good parent. Cut her some slack. Let’s get the gear from the truck.”
When they reached his vehicle Brandon donned his tool belt then lowered his small compressor to the ground. He slung the hose over his shoulder and hefted the nail gun. He could carry everything himself, but he wanted Mason to feel as if he was part of the process. “Loop the extension cord across your shoulder like I did the hose and grab the other end of this board.”
They carried their load to the garage and dumped it. “Now we need the ladders. I’ll get one if you’ll get the other.”
Mason did so without argument. Together they set up on opposite sides of the open door. Brandon climbed the ladder. “I’m going to pull this end of the gutter down and lower it to you. Hold it and try not to let it crimp while I release each section. That way we can reuse it.”
“If you were such good friends with my dad, why’d you quit coming around?” Mason asked while Brandon was trying to pry the first gutter spike free. The question jarred him so much that when the spike broke free suddenly he almost fell from his perch.
Did the boy not remember the funeral fiasco? Maybe not. He’d only been five. Brandon formulated an abbreviated version. He met Mason’s gaze. “Because I remind your mom of your dad, and that hurts her. She asked me not to visit.”
“Why’d you show up now?”
He couldn’t tell the truth. Lying was a slippery slope. “Because I missed you.”
“Well, don’t get the idea I need a dad now. I’ve been fine without one.”
The false bravado wasn’t a surprise. He descended the ladder and handed Mason the end of the gutter. “I’m sure, as man of the house, you’ve had to be fine. I still have my dad. But he has a disease. I worry about losing him every day, and I can’t imagine life without him. It must be tough.”
“What’s your dad got?”
“Parkinson’s. It steals a little of his strength at a time. And eventually, it’ll take him entirely. What’s worse is that his mind is as sharp as ever, and he’s aware of every inch of ground he’s losing. I’m fortunate to have him, and I make sure he knows that.”
He moved the ladder, climbed and repeated the process with each additional spike. Mason kept silent until Brandon removed the last one, then he blurted, “Have you ever shot anyone?”
A vision of the perp standing over Rick’s body and the blood pools spreading across the floor flashed across his brain. The sudden pressure on Brandon’s chest felt as if a beam had dropped on it. “Once. I try to avoid that.”
“Are you scared to?”
That day he’d wanted to empty his clip into the guy who’d killed Rick. The only reason he’d managed to stop after one shot was because he wanted to see if Rick was still alive. “No. I value life—mine and others’—and my job. Shooting someone without cause jeopardizes both.”
“Have you ever beat up anybody?”
Another tough answer, but truth often was. “Yes. But never for the sport of it. When I’ve hit someone it’s because I was defending myself or someone else. Again, fighting is—”
“I know, I know. A last resort. Jeez. I heard ya’ the first time.”
Brandon lowered the last end of the gutter and helped Mason carry it to the grass beside the driveway then stopped beside the boy. “Is there someone you think needs beating up now?”
A darting glance was a telling glance. “Who, Mason?”
“Nobody.”
“C’mon, everybody wants to pop someone sometime. Is a kid bothering you?” No answer.
“At