He was focused intently on her face. Didn’t speak. His eyes seemed darker than usual. Maybe it was the lighting, but the amber color appeared almost black. “So,” he said, breaking the silence. “You’ve been on the run for four years?”

She nodded.

“And your parents died four years ago?” His voice was measured, almost emotionless.

She nodded again.

“Is there a connection?” he asked.

The question was innocuous enough, but it felt as if she’d just been bowled over by a wrecking ball. “No. God no. I had nothing to do with it. They were in a car crash, snuffed out by a goddamned cement truck. I loved my parents. Loved them deeply. They were the most important people in my life. We were looking forward to the future, to the baby, to the—”

*   *   *

Sarah froze, her hand flying up, clasping hard over her mouth. A low keening noise forced its way past her hand, her head bowing to her chest, but not before he saw the tears fill and overflow from her blue, blue eyes. By the time he’d rounded the table, her body had started rocking back and forth as if the grief was too big to contain. He gathered her in his arms for the second time that day, holding her. No words were sufficient, so he just held her close.

The waitress quietly placed their food on the table with her eyes averted, then silently slipped away. “And then what?” Mick said, because it was clear, no matter how difficult it was, Sarah needed to talk things out. “What happened?”

“Nothing. There were no arrests. The driver had probably been drunk or high on amphetamines. Didn’t even stop. Just mowed them down and kept going. They never found him. He went on living his merry life, but me . . .” Her voice broke. “One day”—her voice so soft now, weary—“my parents were there, and the next day they were gone. Didn’t get to say goodbye. Tell them how important they were to me. How much I loved them . . .”

“They knew.”

“You don’t know that.”

“They knew.” Mick didn’t know why he was so sure, but he was. It was a bone-deep certainty, and she must have felt it, too, because her body softened, as if the agitation was physically draining out of her. She turned her face into him. He could feel her hand clutching his T-shirt, her warm breath fanning across his chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered. They were silent for a while. Just breathing in and out. When she spoke again, her voice was muted. “After we buried them, there was the reading of the will. Kevin was angry. They had tied everything in a trust and—”

“Kevin?” Mick managed to say, calm and steady, as if his heart hadn’t started thundering like a stampede of wild horses, as if there weren’t a sudden rushing in his ears. “Who’s Kevin?”