Just like the dark-haired man next to her had at one time been a boy, probably with his head in some Encyclopedia Jones book or insisting on playing I Spy over and over.
She bent down, wanting to move the Legos away from the girlie magazine. As if she could save Derek now.
“Don’t touch anything,” Rafe ordered.
She rolled her eyes. They’d been in the bedroom for a good fifteen minutes. Her prints were everywhere, and these Lego bricks weren’t the calling card for something sinister.
But Rafe was the cop and she the uncomfortable civilian.
When they finished in Derek’s bedroom, he led the way back to the living room and the bowl of sympathy cards. Rafe asked for the senders’ addresses, and Judy Chaney dug out her book to give him those she knew. Mr. Chaney went looking for envelopes for those she didn’t.
Every person who’d sent a card was meticulously recorded in Rafe’s little black book. No doubt Officer Candy Riorden would be assigned to find phone numbers and addresses to go with each name. Then, there’d be a visit.
Janie didn’t think she’d enjoy Rafe’s job.
Way too dark.
No wonder he saw the world in shades of brown.
And, boy, was he good at giving orders. She spent ten minutes sitting on the sofa with Derek’s high-school graduation photo staring down at her and listening to Rafe tell the Chaneys what to do. As soon as he and Janie left, they’d be going through Derek’s clothes searching for pieces that might not be his.
Clothes weren’t the only item. Rafe also asked them to check for out-of-place combs, wallets, books, videos, etc., and to widen the search to Jimmy’s old room, the backyard shed, the garage.
They’d be digging up dirt on their son while the undertaker was digging up dirt for his casket.
Morbid.
Janie didn’t want to do this anymore.
Without missing a beat, he turned from the Chaneys to her. “Lock your doors before you go to class today. If you feel like something’s wrong or someone’s acting suspicious, go where there’s lots of people. Call me, I don’t care what time it is.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’m making you my personal responsibility. Give me your phone.”
No didn’t seem to be an answer he’d accept, and as sheriff he could pretty much do what he wanted, so she dug it out of her canvas bag and handed it to him. He added his number and two more: those of Jeff Summerside and Candy Riorden.
“You’re coming across a little heavy-handed,” she reprimanded as she held out her hand for her phone. Delayed reaction seemed to be her standard response when near him. How dare he just take over, without asking? She opened her mouth to give him the you-can’t-boss-this-girl speech, but then he looked at her.
Really looked at her.
And she lost her breath. His eyes were smudged coal, ready to ignite, but now only flickering. She’d painted something very much like those eyes years ago. She’d drawn a black panther on the wall of her bedroom—watchful, hurting, helpless, hopeless, as those he loved disappeared.
Never to return.