Come the Night. Susan Krinard
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the point in lying. “Not until this morning,” he admitted.
Art nodded sympathetically. “The War?”
“Something like that.”
Mercifully, Art didn’t pursue that line of questioning. “Did Warbrick come to see you?” he asked.
“You talked to him?”
“Yeah. He came in first thing this morning, asking to speak to the Chief. I got stuck with him.” Art’s lip curled in contempt. “He demanded that we inform him if a certain kid turned up. Said the boy had run away and might come to the station.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“It came out after he asked where you lived. Except he claimed the kid mistakenly thought you were his father, and made noises about going higher up if we didn’t do exactly as he said.” Art snorted. “Damned Limey, thinks he can lord it over us.”
“He showed up at my place with the same story,” Ross said. “I threw him out.”
Speculation brimmed in Art’s eyes. He controlled it. “I wasn’t much in the mood to kowtow to Warbrick, so when the kid turned up, I called you instead of him.”
“Thanks, Art. I owe you one.”
Art shrugged. “I can always play dumb if the higher-ups come after me,” he said. “Only a couple of uniforms know he’s here, so you can…” He hesitated. “You are going to take him, aren’t you?”
Ross saw the chasm opening up before him. He knew he could walk away, find out where Ethan Warbrick was staying and send Tobias to him, just as Mrs. Delvaux wanted.
But it wasn’t that easy. Ross couldn’t look away from the cold hard evidence of the boy’s parentage. Gillian’s son.
His son.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll take him.”
Art’s relief was obvious. “Right. It might be a good idea to go out the back door.”
Ross nodded, and then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. “He doesn’t know…you didn’t tell him…”
“No. As far as he knows, you still work here.”
“That’s another one I owe you.”
Art shifted his weight. “Do you, uh…if you need a little cash, I’d be glad to—”
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” Ross said, more sharply than he’d intended. “The kid won’t starve before he gets back to England.”
Their eyes met, and Ross realized what he’d just said. He’d already assumed he was sending Toby back to his mother.
And what else are you supposed to do with him?
“I gotta get back to work,” Art said. “Take care, Ross.”
They shook hands. Art strode away, his thoughts probably on whatever case he was working on now. The way Ross’s would have been not so long ago.
Hell.
Ross blew out his breath and opened the interrogation room door. Toby sprang back as the door swung in, guilt flashing across his face.
What did you expect? Ross thought. He walked past Toby and picked up the suitcase.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Are we going home?” Toby asked, hurrying to join him.
Home? “To my place, yes,” he said. Where else was there to go?
He led Toby down the corridor and around several corners until they reached one of the back doors, encountering only a couple of detectives along the way. If Toby noticed their stares, he didn’t let on. The door opened up onto an alley, where several patrol cars were parked. Ross continued on to West Fifty-fourth Street and kept walking, one eye on Toby, until they’d left the station some distance behind. Only then did he stop, pull Toby out of the crowd of busy pedestrians and ask the rest of his questions.
“How did you find out I’m your father?” he asked.
Toby’s body began to vibrate, as if he could barely contain his emotions. “Mother wrote it all down. She didn’t think I’d ever find out, but I…” The spate of words trickled to a stop. “You are my father.”
It was as much question as statement, the one crack of uncertainty in the boy’s otherwise confident facade.
“I know you didn’t expect me,” Toby said, slipping into a surprisingly engaging diffidence. “Mother never told you about me. She was never going to tell me, either. That was wrong, wasn’t it?”
If it hadn’t been for the boy’s age, Ross might have suspected he was being played. But Toby was as sincere as any eleven-year-old kid could be.
“You said she wrote it all down,” Ross said. “Did she say…why she didn’t want to tell us?”
“Yes.” Tobias frowned, a swift debate going on behind his eyes. “But it doesn’t matter to me, Father. I don’t care if you’re only part werewolf and can’t Change.”
Ross was careful not to let his face reveal his emotions. He’d known, of course. Lovesick fool that he’d been, even at nineteen he’d been able to guess the reason why she’d left him.
“You aren’t angry, are you?” Toby said into the silence. “You won’t send me back? I promise I won’t be any trouble.”
Ross stifled a laugh. Trouble? Hell, none of this was the kid’s fault. Ross knew who to blame. And she didn’t even have the courage to face the situation she’d created.
With a little bit of help from you, Ross, me boyo…
Toby continued to gaze up at him, committed to the belief that had carried him across the Atlantic. If there was the slightest trace of doubt in his eyes, it was buried by stubborn determination. And blind, foolish, unshakable faith. Just like the kind Ross had had, once upon a time.
A small, firm hand worked its way into his.
“Are you all right?” Toby asked, his eyes as worried as they had been resolute a moment before.
The feel of that trusting hand was unlike anything Ross could remember. He felt strangely humbled and deeply inadequate. Nothing and no one had made him feel that way in a very long time.
“I’m all right, kid,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not exactly used to this sort of thing.”
“Neither am I.”
Ross bit back another laugh. Toby only reached halfway up to his chest, but he was every bit as precocious as Warbrick had said. Maybe that would make it easier.
Easier to do what? To convince him he has to go back to his mother? That whatever he thinks he’s looking for, I’m not it?
“I gotta warn you, Toby,” he said, “The way you’re used to living…well, I’m pretty sure it’s a lot different from my place.”
Toby gave a little bounce of excitement, as if something tightly wound inside him was beginning to give way. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve read Dashiell Hammett. I know all about American detectives.”
Ross rolled his eyes. How did a kid his age get hold of Hammett’s books, especially in England? That was rough stuff for an eleven-year-old boy. And it had probably given him ideas no real cop or detective could live up to. Especially not Ross Kavanagh.
To think that just a few hours ago he’d thought his problems couldn’t get any worse.
Start simple, he told himself. “You hungry?” he asked.
Toby turned