The Strong Silent Type by Marie Ferrarella Page A

confessor or a shrink.”
    She braced herself as he flew through the light. She could always tell when she got to him. He drove faster. “You work it right, a friend can be all of that.”
    He bit back the curse that rose to his lips. It wouldn’t solve anything and she’d probably come upwith a bar of soap to use on his mouth. “You just don’t stop, do you?”
    When he looked in her direction again, she moved her head from side to side. “Nope.”
    This time, he did mutter an oath, albeit a mild one. “You’re like that kid’s story about the train—”
    It took her a minute to realize what he was referring to. “You mean The Little Engine That Could ?”
    “Yeah, that one.” He turned right on the corner. “Pushing and shoving, being a damn pain in the butt, until you make it up over that hill.”
    “Who read you a story?”
    Her question, asked so softly, caught him off guard. He shrugged. “They read it in school once.” Why was he even telling her that? Why was he telling her anything? Every time he tried to clam up, she was at him with a crowbar and he didn’t even realize it. “Cavanaugh, I don’t pry into your life—”
    She spread her hands innocently. “Pry away, it’s an open book.”
    He didn’t want to pry. The less he knew about her, the better. She was already haunting his thoughts far more than he was happy about. To know anything more about her might increase her occupancy time. “That’s your problem, not mine.”
    It never bothered her to be too open. She had no secrets, other than a deep fear of commitment, of being hurt. But that certainly wasn’t in play here. “Okay, but someday, you’re going to need a friend. And when you do, I’m here.”
    That sounded more like a threat to him than a promise. He sighed. “Until then, could you make like a silent partner?”
    “Sorry.”
    And then he laughed. “Didn’t think so. I guess that sort of thing comes under the heading of miracles.”
    “Looks to me as if you’ve already had a slice of that.”
    Hawk pulled up into the parking lot. “How do you figure?”
    He expected Cavanaugh to say something about his having her as a partner, but instead, she said, “You got out of your old neighborhood in one piece.”
    Almost one piece, he thought. But the mean streets had left their mark on him and it wasn’t the kind of mark that anything could ever wash away.
    He kept that to himself.
     
    Andrew’s body felt stiff as he brought his car to a halt in the parking lot. It was the tension rather than his years that was taking its toll on him. He’d felt it ever since he’d gotten into his car earlier.
    Turning off the ignition, he sat behind the wheel for a moment. Gathering his thoughts. Gathering his courage. Beside him on the passenger seat was their family album and Rose’s copy of Gone with the Wind. Evidence to prove his case.
    He wavered, debating turning back. Debating bringing one of his kids with him. Callie was the convincing one and he wished she was here with him now.
    Damn it, a man shouldn’t be afraid to see his own wife.
    But he was. Afraid of rejection. Afraid that what would happen here would destroy the fabric of the life he’d woven together these past fifteen years for himself and the kids. A life that was still missing one thing.
    Rose.
    He’d wanted to call the family together and tell them about the fingerprints. That he’d been right all along. That their mother was alive. Twice he’d even picked up the phone to call Brian and tell him about it. But each time he’d hung up before the call went through.
    This was something he needed to face himself, to do himself. The others could know later.
    Rayne had been the one who’d seen Rose first. On her way to Bainbridge-by-the-sea on a case, his youngest had stopped at the diner and seen the woman who called herself Claire. The resemblance was so strong, Rayne had been struck by it immediately. She’d come home to tell him about it, about possibly