OHANA
follows "Renewal"

Chapter 6

               ***May 1, 2024***

"Are you feeling better, Mama?" Olivia asked as she dipped toast into her egg.

"Yes," Alex said, laying her fork down, noting that Olivia looked a little wan. "Are you all right? I know yesterday was...a shock. Not to mention Mr. Trent," and her mouth set in a hard line, "thinking we were friends with Bruno just to get money from him."

"To play devil's advocate for Trent," Bobby said quietly, "think of what we saw in eleven years in Major Case. Family members backstabbing each other. Friends selling out friends. Partners betraying each other. Whether you're a detective or an attorney, sometimes you see the worst humankind can dole out."

"Like Madame," observed Olivia, poking the last "soldier" into the yolk and chewing it thoughtfully.

Bobby eyed her. "Is that all that's bothering you, Min?"

She sighed. "No. It's something Cerise said after the bell rang: 'I'll bet you'll be glad to leave that little house and be in a bigger one.'" Her front teeth chewed at her lip for a few seconds. "But I won't."

"We're all thinking alike. It's what your mother and I were talking about last night," Bobby told her. "This house is special to all of us. It will be painful to have to sell it."

Olivia pushed out her lower lip. "Must we?"

"We still have to pay the mortgage on this house," Alex said wryly. "Although Bruno's mortgage is paid up, there are still taxes and upkeep on both homes."

"Maybe someone we know could buy this house," proposed Olivia. "Uncle Mike and Aunt Carla–"

Bobby couldn't help chuckling. "Oh, Min. They lived here last summer as a favor to us and because Carla wanted some space to write her master's thesis. Logan is a city guy and always will be. Even working on Staten Island was too far out for him."

"But you and Mama–"

"Changed our minds? Yes, but for many reasons, and ones that don't apply to either Mike or Carla."

"Someone else then? Mr. Jenkins? Shard and TJ?" She was struggling to keep calm. Bobby glanced at the old electric clock—it was time for her to leave for school, but how could they end the conversation this way? He extended his hand to her, so she abandoned the remainder of her breakfast to take refuge in his arms. "What are you thinking, Olivia?"

She stumbled over words as she spoke. "When Maman and Papa Marcel died...when Miss Bradford-Smith told me, I was so afraid...I knew I'd either be left at school or camp, and when I couldn't be there, it would be with Madame...even with Luisa and Laurent there, I knew Madame didn't want me...knew she hated me...but then you and Mama came...you made such a fuss, remember, because the house was small and it wasn't what I was used to...and you were right, it wasn't, but it turned out to be better...because we were all together all the time, all close, like in the tour bus...like a hug...I didn't have to be alone...it was all here...it was..."

"Warm...safe...home?" Alex asked softly.

Olivia sniffled and looked over her shoulder. "Yes. You know?"

"It's how I felt my first time here."

Bobby rocked her briefly, then whispered, "Do you think you can manage school, Olivia?"

"Yes, Papa," she whispered. "I just–"

"Had to say what you felt. I know."

Alex patted her back. "Finish your milk, sweetie, and we'll walk to the car together."

"My book bag–" Olivia gulped, wiping her eyes.

"Well, that's easy enough," Bobby said, kissing her forehead, then freed her to take a few steps into her bedroom and pick up the required bag. An object winked at him from her night table, so he scooped it up. After handing her the backpack, he fastened the little kitsune pin under her lapel. "So you know we're thinking of you today."

Alex gently patted Olivia's eyes with a tissue. "We'll do our best for our family. But sometimes that means letting go."

By the time Alex had returned from St. Gregory's, Bobby had cleaned up after breakfast, put away leftovers, and washed and dried the dishes. He had slammed the cupboard door decidedly as Alex walked back into the kitchen.

"Well, that was a statement," she said in a level voice, noticing his grim expression.

"We had two calls after you left, one on the landline, one on my cell," he scowled. "It's begun already. Realtors. Both had heard we would be selling one of two properties and wanted to introduce themselves."

"Fast workers," she responded with a sigh, hung up her light jacket on the hook over the kitchen closet door, then strolled to the coffee maker to brew herself a fresh cup. She watched him fidget, settle himself heavily in a kitchen chair, scrub his face with the palms of his hands, and then prop his chin on his clenched fist. She waited out his silence.

"On Wednesdays," he said abruptly, as she spooned sugar into her coffee, "I don't favor Ana and Carlos, do I?"

Alex gave it due consideration. "At Big Brothers? No. Outside Big Brothers..." She took a seat next to him at the still-extended gateleg table. "We do see them more than the other children, but then Mrs. Diaz is here...or has been here when Viola did Bruno's errands for him, and we've watched them when she's gone to doctors' appointments, which we haven't with the others. But the other children have extended families or don't need care outside of Wednesday afternoons, either. Face it, Bobby, those four days at Christmas two years ago made the difference. During that time, they were like our kids. We took them into our home, and they ended up in our hearts." She flashed a smile. "'Training wheels' for Min, although we didn't realize it then. Why do you ask?"

"Just...thinking."

A likely story. Well, she'd give him more food for thought. "Olivia and I were talking on the way to school...about the house. She wondered if we couldn't rent it."

"That's why I st-started thinking about–" He paused, shifting his train of thought abruptly. "That's an option, I suppose, but I'm not sure about being a landlord. When I rented out my mother's place, I hired a rental management company to handle problems. It was expensive, but I didn't have to worry about the tenants going without water or...accidents. The...trouble with renting is that you never know what sort of client you'll get. I was lucky with mine." Then he winced. "Son of a bitch. I sound as bad as Lena Krentz railing against her one-percenters."

"And where did Ana and Carlos fall in that line of thinking?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Because the person I'd most like to rent this house to is Abril Diaz," he said.

"Then I'd say the three of us are becoming...what did you call it once? A gestalt?" Alex responded, amused, sipping her fragrant coffee. "The last thing Min said before I dropped her off was, 'Too bad Ana and Carlos couldn't live next door.' I was thinking about it the entire way home."

"I know so many families have to do it all the time—hell, my mother shared a room with Uncle Sal for a few years—but...adolescents need some privacy. It's not right, Carlos and Ana being their age and having to share a room. I know the curtain I helped Carlos put up was a help, but–"

"But that's not the main thing, is it?" she asked, reaching out to touch his arm.

"That padrino routine I pulled last week...those boys won't stay buffaloed long. This week, next week, a few weeks...they'll be harassing Ana again–"

"Isn't that what the 'Me Too' movement has been making noises about?" she asked rhetorically. "It's 2024, Bobby, and some men—I know it's not all men—still think—and pass along to boys like Mateo and the others at Pequot Hills, at Pomperaug Regional, probably even at St. Greg's, although I know they keep it in check—that it's normal and natural that women be harassed sexually and emotionally. That it's 'complementary.' That men have a 'right' to do so. I went through it, your precious Penelope went through it, and I know your mother did, too. You take Ana away from Pequot Hills, she's still going to face this crap."

Bobby scrubbed his neck with his left hand fretfully. "She could at least feel safe where she lives. It's not just that. It's Carlos...and the gangs...and the fact that every time I see Mrs. Diaz or pick up the kids or take them home, the place gets shabbier–"

Alex nodded. "I know. She says the rental company is less responsive by the month. I know Shard ended up repairing her faucet in March after she'd called maintenance about it for six weeks, and her water bill doubled."

"We've talked about this before," he sighed, "about protecting Olivia and the rest of the kids. We can't protect them all. We can't protect them from everything. But, dammit, Eames, I just want one happier ending. I want this one. You and Carisi talked about ohana. Those kids—and Abbi Diaz—to me, they are ohana."

"I know. But it's no good, Bobby," she said gently. "Mrs. Diaz couldn't afford our mortgage payment. The stipend she gets for rent at Pequot Hills is all there is. She'd be insulted if we offered to discount the rent, just the same as if you'd made the offer to your mother, or my mother or dad. She's brought up her two grandchildren on her own; they're still attending school and doing well, and now that they have the money Bruno left them to get them started on college or job training, she's more hopeful for their future."

"I know." He looked discouraged. "The last thing I want is to diminish her or make her feel obliged. But–" Then he smiled wryly. "I've locked up so many perps to protect others...that it would be a relief...just once...t-to be able to protect people without having to make any arrest at all."

               ***May 2, 2024***

After receipt of the legal papers and a complete set of keys to Bruno's house, Alex immediately called the repair company she had engaged for their own home to ask if they could add deadbolts to vintage doors. Better Past had sent out a representative who gave them a thumbs up, so he and Bobby had conveyed both back and front doors to the company van, replacing them with temporary steel doors. The originals were due back in two weeks.

After breakfast on Thursday, they once again crossed into the yard next door and entered the echoing house together. The kitchen looked no different from the morning Bobby had run into Trent, except that his mother's dinner plate was no longer in the dish drainer.

"I remember my first time in this room," Bobby reflected. "October 30, 2020. I'd just finished helping Bruno rake leaves, and he invited me in for coffee. He made it in a percolator just like my mom had–"

"With the clear glass bubble on top? Metal with a plastic handle?" Alex guessed.

"Yeah. He used the little coffee spoon that came in the bags of coffee; by the heaping servings he put in the basket, I knew I'd be up half the night." He chuckled. "And I was—but it was the best-smelling coffee I'd had in years and didn't taste all that bad, either. He had real cream, too. And sugar cubes. It was like when I was a little kid, going to tea at a neighbor's house with my mother. Since the pandemic was still on, we sat at opposite ends of this table." He smoothed the glossy wood top of the kitchen table, now shorn of the cracked oilcloth. "Had our masks under our chins and sipped and talked. I had a lot of good coffee here. By the time winter was ending, if Bruno knew it was going to storm, he'd pick up marble cake from Kaufman's—where Rise'n'Shine is now; Kaufman was hard-hit by COVID restrictions and closed in the spring—and sometimes we'd sip and eat and not say a lot.

"When we came through here the other day, I kept thinking I should have known he was living such a minimal existence," Bobby finished, "the hutch being empty, the rust on the dish drainer–"

She reached up and stroked the side of his face.

"But from his video, he didn't seem to think it was minimal. He had all he needed in the dining room he made into a bedroom and this kitchen. He talked with the Athertons and the Novinos. Whatever his friendship was with Viola, it made both of them happy. He watched kids play in his yard again, traded tree tales with Lena Krentz–"

"And you made him happy, Bobby," she said firmly, turning her head aside momentarily so he wouldn't see her blink. "You keep thinking that you don't make a difference, but you do. Always to Bruno. At Big Brothers. To Shard and TJ. To Sam. To Donny. To Scotty Gibson and Laurent and everyone at the VA and hospice. To me, for making me realize I could open my heart again without losing myself. And to Olivia—I still remember you that day at Duplantier House, coming downstairs hand in hand with her in defiance of Madame–" She swiped roughly at her eyes.

He handed her his handkerchief so she could do the job properly. "I remember most of those with you by my side. Even when I pushed too hard, Alex, you always stood by me."

She returned the handkerchief only to see him use it to dab his eyes, and said wryly, "You know, we'll never get done this morning if we don't stop standing around swapping hankies." Then she surveyed the gently-worn kitchen, taking in the way the morning sun played through the trees in the yard and sent dappled light through the kitchen window. On their left, cupboards over counters bracketed a farmhouse sink under the six-over-six window. A tall trash can filled the gap to the left of the refrigerator; on the opposite side, mops and brooms leaned in the corner. An ivory-colored 1950s-era Roper six-burner, two-oven vintage gas range topped by a more modern range hood was centered between glass-fronted cabinets and counters. Between the cupboards and the door to the hall stood the dark-honey-colored Welsh dresser from Bruno's video.

Alex said quietly, "Maybe I'm just going soft in my old age—or I'm just lazy—but I don't see any need for a lot of work here. Min was being sarcastic with Leo, but I like this kitchen the way it is. It reminds me of our house; it wraps itself around you. Stainless steel and granite countertops aren't my idea of a welcoming room. We need to find the swinging door Julian mentioned, or–"

"Or possibly take the door down altogether," Bobby suggested, and she grinned at their immediate sync.

"Everything from the hallway up to the attic needs a fresh coat of paint, the floor in the dining room has to be refinished, and all of it needs a good scrub, but I think Matt's idea of Murphy's oil soap would work best here. I wonder—it's not an obnoxious 50s wallpaper, not pink cabbage roses or pastel polka-dots at least—are there wallpaper restorers or cleaners? Maybe this could be cleaned. I like the colonial motif with the stagecoach and the covered bridge with the willow trees. Reminds me a little of Henry Cattaneo's house. Come to think of it, Henry should know a wallpaper expert."

Bobby nodded. "Bruno told me that after both boys were at college, he and Emma had the entire house...how'd he put it?..."refreshed"—I think it was around 1990: hardwood floors refinished, beadboard stripped and re-stained, the interior painted, converted what was a coat closet under the stairs into that half-bath," then he looked down at the pseudo-stone floor, raised a pair of pained eyebrows, and finished, "and installed these really ugly vinyl tiles."

Alex laughed and noted on her phone to call TruFloor and investigate linoleum.

"This kitchen set is still nice, too," Alex said, smoothing the curved tops of one of the 1950s-era chairs. "Paste wax and a little elbow grease ought to do it."

"This will treble our kitchen work and storage space," Bobby mused, walking the U-shape of the work area. "We could put in a dishwasher next to the sink."

"It would be perfect for get-togethers," but a wistful note crept back into Alex's voice. "But I'd miss the three of us around the sink after meals, washing and drying and putting up together. We won't be close anymore like we are now; we'll each have our own space."

"Nothing says we can't keep that custom up," Bobby said, putting an arm around her, then grinned. "Besides, Sam's so large, he'll make it seem a lot smaller." She smiled, knowing the collie would love romping through a larger house.

They began their inspection, with Alex tapping notes on her smartphone for each room. The basement was an open space save for the gas furnace at the center. The poured-concrete walls were solid, and the windows were intact with no dampness evident; they agreed that their exercise equipment would fit well there, as well as their paper storage. The washer and dryer were pushing twenty years old but looked adequate until they needed replacement. The storage closet Julian had mentioned, reunited with its door, could serve as a pantry.

Bruno's walnut bedroom set was so attractive and well-kept that Alex suggested that they could use it for their bedroom suite instead. "We could put your mother's highboy in the dining room," she suggested, "where everyone could see it, use it to store table linen and seasonal decorations. It's a shame it's been hidden in our bedroom. We could look for a dining set close to the same finish." Their current bed, the IKEA dresser, and Alex's night table could go in Julian's old bedroom for guests.

The library would be Bobby's responsibility; a coat rack and bench would be necessary for the foyer. The two parlors needed further thought, but much of their combined fiction collection, she suspected, would live in the divider bookshelves. The back parlor would be their television-and-movie-watching area and be Bandit's home; the front could be used for listening to music or playing games.

Olivia would have the bedroom next to the main suite since she still suffered from occasional nightmares. Two of her three current downstairs bookcases would fit in one corner, with her bed and night table opposite. Her desk could sit under the window overlooking Courant Street, and, a bonus for both of them, she would have a closet of her own now and not have to share with Alex.

Alex claimed the old "sewing room" for herself. The Murphy bed could be installed here for additional guests, and she'd shop for a desk and shelving for her fundraising projects and any further collaborations with the NYPD.

Finally, they climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. Neither Julian nor Trent had bothered to set foot in the upper story. While the mahogany pieces Julian Volpe had so coveted truly were gone, there were lesser treasures: two slim walnut end tables, an attractive tall, rectangular table with a shelf underneath that Bobby pointed out would be perfect for Bandit's cage and supplies, a full-length tilting mirror, a tall but nondescript oak bureau, a vintage walnut dresser with a round mirror, other small pieces, and a shoe rack and storage containers. In one corner was a stack of vintage toys, including a wooden rocking horse with leather ears and a horsehair tail, a little pedal car, and a pile of board games.

Bobby mused, "If we talk to Carmella's paisan Franco—get this drywalled and floored, heat run up here, or add space heaters, buy window A/C units for summer—we could have a big bunk room. Have a houseful sometime—your family, including the kids, maybe Donny and Evelyn, Aunt Agnes–"

She smiled to herself as he rambled on. It was still his dream to be surrounded by family, and she didn't blame him at all.

Three calls from realtors came in before they returned to the kitchen, and he scowled as he said patiently to the final one, "We haven't yet decided on the disposition of property. Please don't call again."

After he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he asked, "What did we have planned for the rest of the day?"

"I believe we're going to the phone store to get new phone numbers and SIM cards," she replied, eyes twinkling.

"And I'm canceling the landline," he said with resignation.

She stepped up until she was toe-to-toe with him, tilting her head upward. "I hope it doesn't take too long," she responded gravely, but with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I believe you made me a promise the day I left for the city..."

A slow grin spread across his face. "Better get moving then."

               ***May 8, 2024***

With new cell numbers and no further landline calls, peace descended upon them for a week. Alex contacted floor refinishers for quotations, and they pored over linoleum samples for the kitchen. Their schedule returned to normal, and fewer people buttonholed them at the Dark Crystal about the inheritance. Mike and Carla Logan had the Cook's Tour when they visited for the weekend; Alex promised her family one on Mother's Day.

Bobby's childhood buddy Lewis arrived on Tuesday afternoon to take possession of the Camaro he had sold to Bobby some years earlier; he gave Bobby a fair price for it since one of his clients was looking for a model of that vintage. The transaction took five minutes; Lewis spent the rest of the time checking out the blue Mustang, and the three of them took it out on the freeway for the first time. Alex told her sister that when they'd arrived home, they looked like teenagers again, laughing, relaxed, hair tangled from the wind. The only annoyances were the realtor cards taped to the mailboxes at both 2 and 4 Courant, and all three took joy in ripping them off and tossing them in a wastebasket, especially after what seemed like endless hours providing friends, family, and professional contacts with revised phone numbers.

With a new week, the calm continued—until Wednesday afternoon.

Abril Diaz was blocking the doorway of the activities room when they arrived at Big Brothers, her spine rigid, her mouth set in a hard line, the rest of her face looking like a storm about to break.

Bobby almost expected her first words: "How long have you known?"

Still, he smiled weakly and managed, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Diaz, I'm not sure what you're talking about."

Mrs. Diaz glared at Alex. "Señor Goren, he thinks this is funny?"

Alex said cautiously, "No, Mrs. Diaz. He's just a little...unprepared. And so am I."

Abril Diaz was taller than Alex, if not by much, but when she stepped directly in front of Bobby and scowled, he set one foot back, preparing to retreat. "You will not run away, Señor Goren."

Bobby sighed. She had called them "Roberto" and "Alejandra" for months, and now it was back to honorifics. It could only mean one thing. "I assume you're talking about the boys who have been bothering Ana and Carlos."

She was so angry she resorted to more Spanish than usual. "I am speaking about the caco who corners my Ana, making comments about her breasts. That cafre Mateo Salazar. In the meantime, his tráfala corillo hold my Carlito, so he cannot defend her."

Bobby took another deep breath. "I've only known for a few weeks, Mrs. Diaz. Carlos came to Big Brothers with a black eye and a split lip–"

She bridled. "Chico malo! He told me a basketball had bounced the wrong way, and Señor Jenkins had fixed him up."

"Russ did fix him up," Bobby admitted, "but it wasn't a basketball that caused the damage." He reached out his hands. "Mrs. Diaz, please sit with us. Let me explain."

She glared at him. "Oh, you will explain, all right," she said, but she grudgingly took one of the two folding chairs closest to them. Bobby nudged the other toward Alex with his foot, then loped to the wall and came back with a third.

"Mrs. Diaz," he said, steadying himself, "first tell us what happened, please."

"Muy bien. Yesterday I was visiting with Mrs. Vargas, and I realized it was time for the ninos to be home. So I went to meet them. I do not do this often—I know their friends will tease them. I heard voices on the stairs. At the top, there was mia nina pinned against the wall by that cochino Mateo, asking about the size of sus pechos. Carlos was being held back by Mateo's friends and cursing at him. I marched right up to that matón and pulled him away. This Mateo was cocky enough to say that he wouldn't speak if Ana was a properly brought-up girl and did not wear such revealing clothing. She was in a loose T-shirt—nothing revealing!—and what business of his was it if she was? She cannot help it if she has..." She made a curving gesture with her hands in front of her. "I told the cabroncito tonto that if he was a properly brought-up boy, that he would keep his damn eyes and hands to himself. Then I marched him home to his uncle and told him what happened. Do you know what that...pendejo said?"

Alex replied promptly, "Let me guess. 'Boys will be boys.'"

"He did! Except en español—el bruto! I wanted to slap his fat face! But that would have made me as bad as him." Then Mrs. Diaz jumped in her seat as Bobby sharply slammed his fist on the table so hard that it vibrated and rocked.

Her lips pursed in anger, Alex murmured, "Remember, you break it, you buy it."

Bobby rubbed his face with one hand, then began, "While Alex was away, Mrs. Diaz, that Wednesday Olivia and I found Ana upset and Carlos with his face...damaged. He told Russ and me what had h-happened. I took Ana and Carlos home and...um...play-acted for those boys, slicked my hair back, and acted tough. I didn't threaten them, but I told the boys I was the ninos' godfather and they n-needed to...play nice. I hoped it might...draw them off for a while. I suppose that bluff has worn off."

Mrs. Diaz looked a bit mollified. "That was kind of you, Roberto, to lie–"

"But it isn't a l-lie," Bobby said quickly. "It isn't th-the exact truth, but- Mrs. Diaz...I know I shouldn't favor your grandchildren over the others, but since that Christmas wh-when you were in the hospital, we've felt–"

"That weekend changed things. We began to see the three of you as family, not just friends," Alex explained while Bobby took deep breaths to blow off steam. "The way Bruno...the way Bruno saw us. Do you remember...at Bruno's celebration of life, when Amanda's little girl Jesse was talking about ohana, and Viola asked what she meant?"

"I knew what she was talking about," Mrs. Diaz nodded, smiling slightly. "It is the film—the cartoon with Lilo, the little Hawai'ian girl, her sister, and the funny little dog. Ana likes that one. We borrow it from the library."

"The 'dog' that's really from outer space," he agreed, and when Mrs. Diaz looked confused, he added, "Espacio ultraterrestre," and she laughed and nodded.

"Si, that's right. Like the astronauts."

Alex offered soberly, "When Mr. Carisi offered to drive me home from the city the day Bruno passed away, that's what he said. That we were ohana—maybe not family by blood, but still family—together through friendship, through respect...through love. It's why they chose to come to Bruno's funeral. 'Ohana means family, and family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten,'" she quoted. "You and I, Bobby and Carlos, Ana and Olivia. We're ohana."

Mrs. Diaz looked touched. "But someone should have told me."

"I know, Mrs. Diaz. The children explained it to me; they hoped they could handle it on their own," Bobby earnestly replied. "They're not little ones any longer. Carlos is fifteen. His abuelo was working full time at fifteen. And they know what you did for them. You were homesick, weren't you—planning to go back to Puerto Rico before your daughter died? To be with your family? Carlos and Ana know what you gave up when Miguel and Arianys passed away, and you chose to raise them rather than Javier and his wife–"

"They were mis pequeños," Abbi Diaz protested, tears in her eyes. "It has never, never been un sacrificio."

"We know that," answered Bobby soberly, "but they're old enough now that they want to help, take some of the burden from you. They love you dearly, Abril."

Mrs. Diaz's' eyes filled with tears.

Alex's cell phone shrilled an ABBA tune, and she pulled it out hastily to silence it, then did a double take at the caller ID. "Will you two excuse me? I think I need to take this."

She was out of her chair and out the front door so quickly that Bobby and Mrs. Diaz stared after her curiously. Finally, Mrs. Diaz cleared her throat.

"Thank you for helping me understand, Roberto." She patted his arm. "Lo siento. I'm sorry I was so angry."

"You have a right to be angry," returned Bobby. "Neither Ana nor Carlos should endure that kind of abuse. No child should."

"Yes." Mrs. Diaz stood up, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. "If you will excuse me, Russell and the children are in the gymnasium. Russell told me I could use his computer in the office to look for a new place to live. I cannot allow my ninos to be treated like this any longer. I will move away from Southbury if I must."

"The children–" Bobby said helplessly, thinking not only of Ana and Carlos but also of Olivia.

"I need to do what's best for them," the woman said in a dignified voice and strode toward Russ Jenkins' office, leaving Bobby sitting there, his head leaning back in defeat yet totally in sympathy for Mrs. Diaz. Wasn't it only six months ago that he'd told Penelope Hogarth that he and Alex would flee to somewhere without extradition if Olivia's adoption fell through? You did what you had to.

Alex returned a few minutes later, phone tight in her left hand, looking dazed.

"Christ, Alex," he began, "Abbi Diaz says they'll leave Southbury if they have to. I know she has to protect the kids, but what will we tell Min–" When there was no response, he ventured, "Alex?" A pause. "Eames?" Finally, he rose and walked the few steps to her side. "Alex!"

Alex took a breath, and her face regained some color. She waved her cell phone as she spoke: "The mayor's office just called me."

"The mayor of...Southbury?"

"The mayor's office," Alex repeated, still looking stunned. "Gracie Mansion."

Bobby's mouth parted in surprise.

"Sit," Alex bade, and they sank back into their chairs. After several more cleansing breaths to steady herself, she answered, "I didn't talk to the mayor, of course, but someone- Bobby, someone from the mayor's office was at ARWSOA and saw the presentation I did with Liv."

"And?"

"The call was from the Mayor's Task Force for Better Law Enforcement. From a woman named Keyla Masondo. She loved our presentation."

Bobby suddenly grinned. "So there's finally someone in a New York political office with impeccable taste? Eames, this is wonderful. She was calling to commend you and Liv?"

"Yes. And to ask me some questions. She was curious—she said she'd read my CV, my history, about my dad and grandfather. She said I was an excellent law enforcement officer, but that initially I was very traditional in my thinking and wanted to know what spurred my interest in alternative policing methods."

He tilted his head at her. "You told her about how you felt about everything that went down in 2020?"

"Yes, and that...that I became a police officer to protect innocent people from criminals, not to watch, over and over again, police officers whose behaviors were worse than the criminals they were apprehending. Who blotted the reputation of every honest cop and destroyed any trust the public had in us. But...I also mentioned the things I learned from you, and from Liv...that sometimes it wasn't evil that prompted wrongdoing, but trauma, emotional difficulties, mental illness—and that, while we had to stop crimes from happening, many times we were doing troubled people a disservice by lumping them in with career criminals."

"Well, it was nice of her to call to acknowledge your efforts."

Alex said, "She called to offer me a job."

Continue to the Conclusion