The ear-splitting noise level didn’t help the ache in his temples that had appeared halfway through the presentation, and he picked up his pace, scanning the room.

Typical school cafeteria.

Harsh overhead lights. Long rows of tables with attached bench seats. Neutral colors. Food on the floor.

He dodged a smashed French fry.

As soon as he got out of here, he’d swing by Starbucks and get a venti dark roast. That ought to reduce the throbbing in—

His step slowed as a solitary kid caught his eye.

The boy, one of the younger students in the room, was sitting at the far end of a long table. Four older kids were grouped together at the other end, paying no attention to him. A sandwich rested in front of him on top of plastic wrap, a couple of bites gone.

Steve stopped and pulled out his cell. Pretended to check messages as he watched the boy push his food aside and pull a notebook and pencil out of the backpack beside him. He flipped the spiral-bound pad open, bent his head, and began to draw.

Like Jonathan used to, whenever he had a few spare minutes. His son had been an excellent artist.

Too bad he hadn’t had a father who told him that more often. Praised his talent. Encouraged it.

Steve clenched his teeth. His twenty-twenty hindsight was useless at this point. The past was past, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

Pocketing his phone, he prepared to continue toward the door as two kids passing the table stopped behind the boy.

“Hey, look. Noah’s drawing pretty pictures again.” The taller of the two elbowed his companion, a sneer in his voice.

“Yeah. What’re you drawing today, Walsh? Butterflies?” He leaned down for a closer inspection.

Both boys chortled as Noah tucked into himself and closed his notebook.

The other two kids walked on, leaving him in peace.

After waiting until they were a safe distance away, Noah rewrapped his sandwich and put it into his backpack.

Man, kids could be mean.

Steve remained where he was, watching the boy prepare to beat a hasty retreat, lunch uneaten.

Had Jonathan’s classmates ribbed him about his artistic bent?

If so, he’d never mentioned it.

But his son hadn’t been a complainer. All he’d ever wanted to do was make his parents proud—and happy. Whatever it took.

And that had been his downfall.

The boy at the end of the table rose, notebook under his arm—and without any conscious decision to approach him, Steve began walking that direction.

When Noah noticed him, he paused, brow rumpled.

Forcing up the corners of his lips, Steve held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Sergeant Adams with the State Police. I gave a talk here today.”

The boy set down the notebook and took his hand. “I know. I heard you.”

“I bet you were bored.”