QUIVER
follows "Kintsugi"

               ***October 18, 2024***

"Bobby," warned Anthony Ambrose Fessiden, rocking back in his office chair, "you understand that I'm not an adoption lawyer."

If one went by appearance, Robert Goren considered, you could hardly find a less-likely-looking aggressive attorney than Tony Fessiden, who was short and balding, resembling an old-fashioned racetrack tout or small-time crook. It was how Fessiden manipulated his opponents' minds: surely this round-faced comical man couldn't be intelligent, let alone cutthroat!

Alexandra Eames bargained on that in December 2020 when she hired him to take on the insurance company that had tried to short her payout when her home had caught fire. Her bedroom's location at the very rear of the house had saved her life; she'd salvaged only her laptop, clothes, a few books, and the precious boxes of NYPD memorabilia—but that event eventually led to her reunion with her old partner. Now the couple were fast friends with the opinionated attorney.

Bobby relaxed in one of Fessiden's generously upholstered guest chairs, his legs crossed. He enjoyed visiting Fessiden's Westchester offices; they were businesslike, neat, and comfortable, unlike the pretentious paneled faux-Victorian or steel-and-glass minimalist practices he and Alex had encountered in Manhattan. Fessiden and his partner Stephen Polk, the two legal clerks, and the admin staff, especially Fessiden's Della Street-like secretary Bernadette Folsom, were efficient but approachable, which made even business visits acceptable. But Bobby Goren wasn't dressed for business that day; instead, he wore a blue polo shirt, stone-washed jeans, and his favorite Dr. Martens. A light flannel shirt was tossed over the back of his chair.

"I'm interested in general input, Tony. The kids are shopping with Alex, so I dropped by to put feelers out."

"I'll get you a couple names. I know you can't afford Keynes this time out." Fessiden sighed and leaned forward. "Bobby, Randall's not legally an orphan. You can ask DCF for permanent custody, but unless there's adoption consent, that's the end. I can't see a judge disallowing the custody—with so many kids needing foster care, they must be ecstatic that Randall's off the roster. And you already have a good rep with Connecticut DCF. Unless there was gross negligence, I doubt they'd re-home. Isn't his father's first chance at parole in 2032? Randall will be eighteen before that and can stay wherever he likes."

"I think it matters to Randall. It certainly matters to Alex, to me, and to Olivia."

Fessiden smiled. "I know it matters very much to Alex."

               ***October 22, 2024***

"Do you think I'm using Randall as a substitute for my nephew?"

Kashvi Chaudry, in a striking pleated emerald-green blouse with a golden starburst brooch at the collar, acknowledged Alex Eames' image on her laptop screen and regarded her solemnly over pink-framed eyeglasses. Alex sighed and added, "I know. You can't answer that. It's on me."

"What prompted this concern?" her therapist asked gently.

"We're scheduled to visit Randall's father on Saturday, to see if he'd be amenable to our adopting him. But I've been reading articles about adoption, and one talked about how some adopted children feel like they are an afterthought, a...consolation prize for parents who couldn't conceive a child. It bothered me."

Dr. Chaudry nodded. "I can see where that might be disturbing. But then some adoptive parents use the adoption as a weapon when the child doesn't meet their expectations."

Alex glowered. "Some parents expect their children to come out as clones of themselves. Or to fulfill dreams they couldn't achieve. We want neither—just two happy kids who make their own future."

Chaudry said mildly, "Why don't we chat about Eddie, then? You've always mentioned him, and I know odd facts about him. You carried him for your sister and gave birth to him." She cocked her head, almost as Bobby did. "Was he a Caesarian?"

"Oh, no," Alex winced as she chuckled. "It was the whole magilla: labor pains, pacing back and forth, eventually the stirrups...the works."

"It looks as if you still remember the pain."

"Definitely. But it didn't seem to matter much afterward. It's funny. Bobby not telling me that he was going undercover hurt far worse."

Dr. Chaudry noticed the tiny catch in her voice and continued listing what she recalled of Alex's stories about her nephew. "Eddie has known for a long time that you were his surrogate mother. You were an active visitor throughout his childhood. He has red hair like his father and is finishing a degree in civil engineering. But what about Eddie? What's he like?"

Alex, thoughtful, toyed with her left hand, thumb tapping each fingertip. "Randall's father would have found him the perfect 'real boy.' Outgoing, a little mischievous, tried most sports, but his real love was baseball, and he always could look you in the eye. Good grades, but not what you'd call bookish. And he has Liz's eyes. I see her in his face." She shrugged a little. "In some ways he reminds me of my dad, too."

"How so?"

"Up front. Cut and dry. Always out in the open."

"Not much like Randall at all, then."

"Aside from the fact that Eddie was once eleven years old—and made my heart melt when he called me 'OM.'" She saw that Chaudry was puzzled and explained, "In public, it was always 'Aunt Alex,' but after Liz explained my surrogacy, privately he'd call me 'OM.' 'Other Mother.'" Alex smiled fondly. "The first couple of times he did it, I ducked into the bathroom and ran water so no one would see me crying.

"For about ten or fifteen seconds after he was born, I considered running away with him. Bobby could have played uncle—I wondered if he would have hidden us." She looked pensive. "At least that was my silly fantasy until practical Alex reappeared. I was all about my career back then and barely thought about having a child...but I don't regret it. I wouldn't have wanted to end up like the people I saw in my work, resenting their kid because they put their life on hold."

Dr. Chaudry studied her silently, keeping to the topic at hand. "Do you see Randall as more like Robert?"

Alex leaned back in the desk chair, thoughtful. "My answer will sound odd, but yes...and no, because...not the Bobby who exists now. The other Bobby–"

"Robert when you first met him?"

"Definitely not that Robert!" Alex chuckled, sounding both nostalgic and rueful. "My God, I make Bobby sound like Sybil. But since I don't know what parts of Bobby's life he's confided in you, I don't know if you've ever...known Bobby like I did when we first met. He was...in the full flush of his powers...so damn smart. And he knew it, too—so cocksure, and it rubbed people the wrong way, including me at first. You heard about the letter I wrote requesting a new partner. Bobby took it well, but it hurt him. But he could be so tender, too, with victims or the family of victims. Especially kids. And handsome...Jesus, there were women at 1PP who nearly had their tongues dragging the floor."

She realized she was wandering far afield and wrested herself back to the question. "He'd come out of the Army feeling as if he was worth something, not the way his father made him feel or how his mother dismissed him for his brother Frank despite Bobby practically worshiping the ground she walked on." Chaudry gave her a pointed look, and Alex returned defensively, "I know she was schizophrenic and treated like shit by her husband. I know she suffered horribly from cancer. But it's not Bobby's fault that the guy she chose to give her lonely married life succor turned out to be the batshit crazy serial killer who fathered him. Just like Olivia couldn't have picked out who her mother was."

She finally said with reluctance, "Randall's a little like Bobby at midlife when everything started to unravel: Jo Gage's betrayal, his mother fading day by day, the realization he was growing older and was alone–"

"And you were disturbed that he was unhappy–" Dr. Chaudry prompted.

Alex's defense was swift. "As a partner, as a friend, yes. Otherwise...not then. I was still firmly on my chosen career path. That's what I wanted back then...not another romantic entanglement, especially not one with another cop—someone else to die and break my heart."

Chaudry was silent. Something about the article Alex had mentioned, something to do with Randall, had shaken her carefully nurtured emotional barriers. Robert Goren had similar barriers, but he wore his emotions "on his sleeve," as it were, while Alex kept hers tidily shut away, covered by quips and sharpness. She hadn't had a session this passionate since she had first signed on as a patient.

"Even after he kissed me," she had revealed during their third session when Chaudry sensed Alex had begun to trust her and locks were being slowly opened, "he still offered me an out...he still felt he wasn't good enough. And the next day I tried to stay away. Eight hours I tried, because I was still terrified twenty-three years later. I couldn't lose Bobby the way I lost Joe." She'd taken a breath, then said quietly, "I wonder if he realized that after that kiss in the shed, I would have followed him through Hell."

The feeling was mutual, Chaudry knew.

Alex leaned back in her chair, face pensive. "No, that's not the whole truth, either. But back then I pushed him away as much as he did me. We both had reasons for not wanting to go there. As for Randall, it was like when Madame treated Min like dirt under her shoe. It pissed me off...the way his father criticized him, the mother he loves so desperate for money she was crazy enough to leave him alone five days a week with lists...lists! I just wanted to make things right for him. To let him know he's loved. And it's just as strong but different from what I feel for Min. All I knew that first night was that an eleven-year-old shouldn't have to be miserable."

"Yes," Dr. Chaudry responded. "And how is Randall?"

She saw the change in Alex's expression at once, the softness that appeared when she talked about her family. "Dr. Allyson says he's...working through the stages of grief. Bobby thinks he'd already begun mourning when we saw his mother at the hospital. In a way, her death released him. Sometimes he keeps to himself; sometimes he'll find you for a hug or to talk. We all provide him with something different, and it seems to help." She shrugged. "Olivia told me one day—she can be so intense!—when Randall was being stubborn and she was waiting it out, 'We're Gorens; it's what we do.'"

She tilted her head at Chaudry. "Maybe it's not the thing to do, but I've never asked: do you have children?"

The doctor laughed. "Yes. Riva, my eldest, is tenured at Columbia. She teaches economics. My middle child, Kiera, is a therapist like myself. They live in Delaware. And my Navir is an aspiring musician, looking to promote himself in the field."

"Is he good?" Alex asked with a slight twinkle.

"In my completely biased, unbiased view?" the doctor chuckled. "I think he's quite good."

"If he doesn't mind the commute, send him by the Dark Crystal," Alex chuckled. "Shard likes introducing new talent."

               ***October 26, 2024***

"You're becoming a clotheshorse again in your senior years, Agent Goren," Alex teased from behind him, regarding the pensive stance he'd assumed in front of his clothing in the small walk-in closet. "You've been there for ten minutes now."

His eyes scanned the suit jackets, shirts, and trousers as he replied soberly, "I haven't decided how to play this, Eames. Do we go for the power look? 'Aw shucks, just folks'? Or a little of both?" He grinned. "Besides, no matter what you wear, you'll be the inestimable Captain Eames."

Randall came in while they were still hugging, wearing his usual jeans, shirt, and Chucks. "Min would say you're canoodling again," he observed.

"And she'd be correct," Bobby said, reaching out to ruffle his hair while Alex gave him the once-over. "Remember to knock next time, okay?"

Randall nodded solemnly.

"Are you sure you're up for this?"

"Yes, sir," was the sober answer, and his eyes flicked up to meet Bobby's and remained there. When Bobby nodded at him, smiling, Randall's face lit up.

"You'll have to change clothes, though," Alex told him. "We should be a bit more formal for this visit."

A frown instantly appeared. "Do I haveta wear a suit like to the DCS interview?"

Olivia piped up from behind him, "We can't. We don't want that!"

Bobby arched an eyebrow. "'We' don't?"

Standing in the doorway in stocking feet and a slip, she shook her head emphatically. "If we look wealthy, Randall's dad might take advantage of us!"

Alex, her hand on a skirt she considered wearing, asked, "What are you talking about?"

"I heard when Captain Benson said he was a con man. If we look rich, he'll think we're like those celebrities who adopt poor kids to make points with the press. He might think he can get money from us."

Bobby tilted his head at her. "'Celebrities who adopt poor kids...' Where did you hear this?"

"From Luisa!" Olivia said, wide-eyed, referring to her old nanny. "Once she told me all about Madame's friend. I think her name was Lillie Pelletier. She was a perfumerie heiress, Luisa said. She adopted a little boy from Cameroon, and it was in all the newspapers, and then no one ever saw him again because she just went to her parties and he stayed home with a nanny."

"And did you ever think that perhaps Madame Pelletier just wanted her adopted son out of the prying eyes of the paparazzi to give him a normal childhood?" Bobby remarked, regarding her with amusement.

Olivia made a face but stopped, crossing one leg behind the other as she considered.

"I s'pose," the girl finally said, but Alex and Bobby knew how her mind worked—any friend of Evangeline Pepin's was naturally suspect!

"Why don't we go for the 'first-day-of-school' look rather than 'Sunday best'?" Alex proposed.

Olivia's eyes widened. "You can wear that burgundy-colored shirt, Randall! With the black cords! You'll look really badass!"

Alex's eyebrows shot up so high a wide-eyed Randall thought they would collide with her hairline. "What did you say?"

Olivia backed up a step. "Carlos says it," she responded defensively.

"Carlos," Bobby reminded, "is fifteen."

Olivia chewed her lip. "Don't blame Carlos," she said finally. "You know—little pitchers and big ears and all that. All the boys like it when he says it."

"You take sole responsibility, then, for appropriating the phrase?" Bobby replied with a twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, sir." Then Olivia added lamely, "Anyway, Randall, you'll look sick."

Alex forgot the transgression at Bobby's baffled expression and grinned. "Get with the program, Agent Goren. That's the younger generation's version of 'cool.'" She waved hands at both children. "All right...go get...sick."

"Olivia," Bobby interjected more sharply than he intended. "Don't wear a dress. Slacks will be better."

"But–"

"Please," he requested so gravely that she simply nodded and vanished, but Randall lingered, puzzled.

"We have a long drive, sweetie," Alex reminded him, and Randall promptly forgot whatever else he was thinking and beseeched, "Ms. Alex...please promise you won't call me 'sweetie' in front of my dad. Please?"

Alex nodded, suppressing a grin. "I promise."

When both children were gone, she noted his still grim face. "Bobby?"

"I've never been to New Amsterdam," he explained abruptly. "Don't know the l-layout or if the prisoners...uh...on work detail can see visitors."

Alex understood at once. "You don't want chomos seeing Olivia in a skirt."

"I wish I could have talked her out of coming with us, p-period," he said tightly, pulling a white shirt from a hanger. "We could order her to stay here with Abbi."

"She wants to support Randall and to show his father what a 'real family' looks like," Alex responded wryly. "She called him a wanker. I asked her not to use the word, but all I could think about was when we brought her home, and how she was so careful of every word she said, afraid we'd change our minds about her."

"And now her boarding school language has come up...um...in spades," he said soberly, but there was humor behind it. "She's secure enough to test us."

"Let's see if we can make Randall secure, too."

Bobby mused, "I wonder if Shaw will even recognize him."

"Because he hasn't seen him in more than two years?" Alex asked grimly as she dressed.

"Not only that. We've been watching him change daily, a fraction at a time, so you've forgotten. I had...um...until I scrolled back on Olivia's blog the other day," Bobby remarked, pulling the silvery-grey suit jacket and trousers he'd chosen from their hanger. "Think back to August, that skinny, grimy, and rather sm-smelly little boy we brought home two months ago, the one who could barely meet our eyes." He chuckled as he thought about it. "Min whispered to me, 'Papa, could you get him to take a shower?' so she wouldn't embarrass him by saying it aloud."

Alex smiled in recollection. "He was so surprised when we didn't fuss over his not eating the carrots that touched the gravy. And he's filled out, hasn't he? A little taller, too, and noisy and happy."

"And growing more confident." Bobby tilted his head at her. "Most of that's on you, Eames."

She froze, then shook her head and said matter-of-factly, "Oh, come on, Bobby. It's all of us. Abbi and the kids, too. Russ and the boys. Brother Michael—and even Kenny Shepherd and his rabbits."

Bobby countered, "But most of all, the trust he's put in you. You were there for him that first night. He'll never forget that, Alex."

"All right, Shaw," barked Jack Mackensie from outside the steel bars, "off your backside. I'm here to escort you to the shower. Got a clean uniform and other stuff for ya."

Sterling Shaw and his cellmate Gib had their heads bowed over yet another of their endless games of chess. The board was cheap cardboard balanced on Shaw's knees and the chess pieces plastic, but it entertained them for hours.

"Who'd you fuck to get an extra shower this week, Silver?" Thomas Gibson joked, eyes still on his queen. "You cheatin' on me?"

"Nobody in my life but you, sweetheart," Shaw returned, thinking that he could have done worse with a cellmate; at least Gib was clean and didn't snore—a short, natty Black man in his early 30s with an already receding hairline who could match Shaw quip for quip. Since Mackensie was a straight shooter and Shaw knew it, he carefully lifted the worn cardboard chessboard and transferred it to his bunk, eyeing Gib. "Everything on the board the way you left it?"

"It's square," Gib responded. "What's up, Officer Mackensie?"

"Mr. Wonderful has visitors in half an hour," Mackensie said brusquely. "Think of it as a mini-vacation for both of you. Front and center, Shaw."

"Visitors?" Shaw asked as he positioned himself before the opening under the lock so that Mackensie could handcuff him, surprised. "My old lady's dead. Who else would come?"

With a grin, Gibson said, "Maybe it's a pretty Salvation Army lass to read you a tract."

"I wish. Oh, I checked out the board, too. Don't go moving the pieces, dude."

"Silver," protested Gibson, "would I do that to my cellie?"

"In a heartbeat," Shaw replied raffishly.

Mackensie deliberately snapped first one cuff and then the other on Shaw, then motioned for him to back up so he could open the door. "C'mon, Mr. Wonderful." He jerked his chin at Gibson. "Enjoy the respite from the baby killer."

The guard, six feet four of pure muscle who resembled Jack Johnson, the classic prizefighter, escorted him down a row of cells, where men of all colors catcalled. Shaw began to show off, swinging his shoulders and wagging his hips as he walked.

"Nix that, baby killer," Mackensie growled, and Shaw, knowing the man had a fourteen-year-old daughter at home, reined himself in. Resentment seethed in him every time someone used the nickname; damn Santiago, he thought to himself for not the first or even the hundredth time since he was convicted, when he said that batch of oxy had a little extra 'kick,' I figured he cut it less than usual and priced it accordingly. And Hank had to have known. Damn fucking Felton for dragging his sister into it!

"Seriously, Mack," he wheedled as they turned and marched toward the shower facility, "who's visiting me? Did they tell you?"

"Some Fed named Goren," Mackensie taunted with malicious satisfaction. "Whaddya do, Shaw, take out some congressman's kid, too? They gonna take you to Big Boy prison?"

What the fuck did a Fed want with him? Shaw searched his mind as they walked. He'd once had a half dozen young adults working for him who had regular customers, chiefly brat college kids of all sorts of public officials and private one-percenters. Had someone else rolled on him to save their own neck? Since he'd been imprisoned, Shaw kept his nose clean, worked in the prison sundries shop, and was a general favorite, even among the hard-timers, as much as the guards despised him. The senior Feltons would block any parole attempt he made, at least until the day they died, so he swore if his supplier—or Hank Sorelto, who'd meddled with Rosalind—ever ended up in the yard with him, he'd make either son-of-a-bitch pay.

Nonchalant outwardly, but with his thoughts approaching freeway speed, Shaw was directed into the shower block. The black-and-beige tiled room was scrubbed daily by a prison work crew; nevertheless, it still carried a foul reek paired with Lysol cleaner. Shaw suspected the crew peed in the wash water to get back at the guards. A second guard, a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued redhead named Kelly Meehan, whom Shaw distrusted as much as he had confidence in Mackensie, smirked at him, then glanced mockingly at the stack of fresh clothing next to the open shower stall.

"We're keeping an eye on you, Shaw," he promised with a smug smile. "Or yo' ass is grass."

"What's that smell?" Randall asked, freezing at the door to the observation area for the visitor's room.

The sight of the bleak, imposing concrete exterior of the New Amsterdam Correctional Facility, surrounded by walls and razor wire and an ominous guard tower, followed by the stark grey-and-green hallways of the prison had already quieted both children, who had previously been conducting a lively debate about Halloween in the back seat of Alex's new Honda Pilot. Olivia was covertly curious while Randall kept his eyes down as he walked.

Now he warily peered into the antechamber, whose window overlooked the visitor's room. He knew from his experience at the Special Victims Unit that the opposite side of that window was mirrored. Four paint-worn, pale green metal chairs had been set inside for their comfort, and a rigid, sober-faced woman with grizzled short hair was on guard at the door. She nodded in greeting, relaxing briefly at the sight of the children. The pair, in return, regarded her—and the truncheon on her hip—with a certain amount of awe.

Bobby and Alex observed the small chamber with little nostalgia. This wasn't the common visitor's room, where multiple guests spoke to their incarcerated family members or friends through telephones and panes of glass. Instead, it was an area used by prisoners and their legal counsels or visiting law enforcement for private negotiation, with a central table bolted to the metal floor with several freestanding chairs around it. Curved metal piping for securing the prisoner was soldered to the metal table. As in the rest of the prison, it was painted an institutional pale green over haze grey, the paint now chipped in places and illuminated with stark fluorescent light fixtures. Alex watched emotion flicker across Bobby's face and wondered if he was thinking of Tate's or Mark Ford Brady's final days. With that in mind, she laid a hand on his shoulder, and he sighed, then nodded at her.

"It's the odor of multiple people kept in close quarters for long periods," he answered Randall dryly, wishing his olfactory senses were not so acute. He recalled how Alex used to wince when he sniffed items at crime scenes, and today he could see her point. The prison maintenance crews tried to keep these rooms in better shape for the sake of the attorneys and special visitors, but all the bleach and Windex in the world couldn't cover up what Randall had noticed—even deep cleaning didn't mask the sour, pervasive odor of urine, bowel movements, vomit, and sweat.

Olivia, remaining close to Alex's side, peered into the room with round eyes, swallowed, and kept silent.

"Are you going to be all right?" Alex whispered to her.

Randall heard the question. "You don't have to stay, Olivia. It's okay."

Olivia's chin lifted stubbornly. "This is for all of us. And I'm fine."

Bobby's big hand swallowed her smaller one as he squeezed it reassuringly. Looking through the glass again, she said scornfully, "I don't see why anyone would do something bad when you'd end up in a naff place like this."

"They never imagine they'll be caught," he told her softly.

"Mack," Sterling Shaw repeated, "I know you don't like me or what happened, but it's not like I did." Wearing fresh clothing, including a spotless blue work shirt and jeans, his hair slicked back with water, he stopped abruptly outside the visiting area. His eyes drifted to the open door, only to glimpse a formidable stranger wearing a grey suit.

Mackensie jerked to a halt behind him. In apologetic tones, Shaw appealed to his escort, "Mack, how was I to know my supplier would cut his oxy with Apache? He always used plain old powdered milk when I started doing business with him. And I didn't sell to the 14-year-old, but to her brother, who was of age. I didn't want her to die. Is it my fault Rick Felton treated his kid sister to drugs? Who the hell does that?"

"I read the trial testimony. Felton was a regular. Maybe you should have been more familiar with your clients, baby killer," MacKensie mocked him, enjoying seeing the self-possessed con man off-balance. "You being the expert at sizing up marks and all. Oh, that's right, you never saw the kids whose lives you ruined. You just saw their obits and prayed new customers turned up."

He cocked his head at the doorway with an expression of disdain. "He's not here on Fed business, you dumbass. With all your 'Rosie, I lost my Rosie' guff, you haven't once asked about your kid. Your son. Remember him?" He pointed to the figure in the grey suit. "All they told me was that's who the Fed wants to talk to you about. What's your kid's name? Do you even remember it?"

"Yeah. His name's Randall," Shaw replied sullenly.

"Good." Mackensie took Shaw by the arm. "Play nice now. And quit calling me 'Mack.' I'm not your buddy and never will be."

Only after Shaw was led into the room with its harsh fluorescent lights and to the table could he clearly see the man in grey. Jesus, he was immense—broad shoulders squared in a pale grey suit with no tie and shirt collar open, way over six feet tall, his appearance amiable enough, but with deceptively sleepy but sharp dark brown eyes. Crowned with mostly silver-laced brown hair and matching silver Van Dyke beard, in combination with the suit, he was like a pewter chess piece, the king or perhaps the knight. His fidgety hands, though, they reminded him of someone...

Bobby had deliberately avoided current photographs—the only one he had seen was the much-creased five-year-old snapshot Randall had in his backpack when they brought him home, in which Shaw was mostly obscured by shadows from a tree—and had asked the prison to send him a written dossier only. He intended to work from scratch from first impressions. Having seen Rosalind Shaw's photo and then in person, tiny and shrunken, in her hospital room, Bobby was anticipating some trace of Randall's features carried over from Shaw's face, but the man looked nothing like he expected. He was sleek and compact, no more than six feet tall, with sandy brown hair and russet eyes, a slightly prominent Roman nose, and full, sensual lips. The prison barber had provided a diffident haircut, but, with a professional styling job and wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, he could have been a model for 1950s Arrow dress shirt magazine ads.

He cocked his head as MacKensie led Shaw to the table, preparatory to fastening the man's wrists to the immovable bar on the table.

"Is that necessary, Officer MacKensie?" he asked pleasantly.

The guard said stolidly, "Agent Goren, I advise following procedure."

Bobby arched his eyebrows at the guard and then gave the prisoner a pointed look. "I'm sure Mr. Shaw has been thoroughly frisked and that he accepts his boundaries."

"I still have to remain in the room, sir," MacKensie said stiffly.

"Understood."

Jack MacKensie stationed himself behind Shaw in the furthest corner, his eyes steeled on his prisoner.

"Please sit down, Mr. Shaw," Bobby said in a mild voice, and once Shaw complied, he held out his hand. "Robert Goren."

Shaw shook his hand in return, the chains of the handcuffs jingling with the motion. "Sterling Shaw. Pleased to meet you."

Bobby's iron grip on his hand made certain he knew his boundaries, and then he nodded and sat down.

"How's the weather outside? I've got the yard later today, and I'm looking forward to some fresh air. Not raining, I hope?"

Bobby's eyes flickered. Shaw was trying to establish a connection. "Low 60s this afternoon."

"Nice. I'll enjoy it." Shaw's voice turned conversational. "Mack...Officer Mackensie tells me you're a Fed."

"That's right. But I'm not here in that capacity."

Bobby noted how Shaw schooled his face not to show overt emotion; leaning back as well as he could manage in the rigid chair, he nodded and smiled. "Well, you've got my attention. What can I help you with, sir?" In a moment he resembled "that guy," the friendly one who said hello to you in a café but turned out to be a salesperson. Bobby kept his face equally guarded, only settling himself more solidly in the chair, his head tilted back so that he scrutinized Shaw along the ridge of his nose, crossing his arms in front of him for good measure, staring back deliberately.

In the outer chamber, looking through the glass that was a mirror on the opposite side, Alex nodded in satisfaction. She'd seen this battle of wills before and how it usually ended.

"Got him!" Olivia whispered with glee, watching the standoff.

"What?" Randall asked, standing close to Alex. Even through the glass, he found it difficult to keep his eyes on his father, but he fixed his attention on Bobby instead, fingers gripping the window frame tightly.

Sterling Shaw's affable visage had begun to go rigid. It was evident that he was used to his contagious smile lowering the resistance of his marks, but Special Agent Goren was having none of it. Inadvertently, in fact, he'd taken the wrong approach because his self-possessed, engaging personality reminded Bobby of his gregarious, alluring, but untrustworthy father. Spiritually, he could have been bon vivant, blarney-spewing Billy Goren's twin, and Bobby had to remind himself to be dispassionate.

"Papa's got him," Olivia repeated smugly, her arms crossed against the glass.

"Officer Mackensie hinted," Shaw finally commented tentatively, "that it's somethin' about Randall?"

"So you do remember his name," Bobby said offhandedly. "As far as I can tell, you haven't inquired about him since your wife was hospitalized."

Shaw said earnestly, "There was a delay. I didn't learn that Rosie was in the hospital until after school was out. When I did find out, I was also told children's services had picked him up. They promised me that he would be cared for—and I had to trust them, didn't I?"

Bobby cocked his head at Mackensie. "Delay? Is this true, Officer?"

"Yes, sir, I'm afraid so," the guard admitted grudgingly. "The warden was told it took NYPD a week to identify her, and then no one realized there was a boy home alone. There was also miscommunication between the Connecticut police and the NYPD."

Bobby smiled wryly. "Everyone's spread thin these days."

To his surprise, Shaw blurted defensively, "I hope you don't blame Rosie for this! She must've been in bad straits to leave him. She visited me every month, but when she lost her job, she never said a word. She loved working at M&T, and being laid off must have killed her. I found out she was unemployed when they told me she'd been hospitalized. I remember that the last few times she came here, she was mighty frazzled, but she never let on something was wrong, and I put it up to her being alone. I should've asked."

It was evident from the regret and dismay in his voice that his loss was genuine.

"I've read her file. Rosalind sounds like a special lady who coped as well as she could," Bobby responded sympathetically, finding Shaw's reaction intriguing. He decided to give the man an opening, tilted his head to one side, and added lightly, "Of course, with you gone, there must have been an additional burden for her with a child like your son." He quirked his mouth. "Randall's...um...a rather unusual boy. A little...odd. Y'know..." and he lowered his voice, "kinda a w-weirdo."

Randall's eyes widened, and he flashed a look at Alex, hurt. Alex whispered, "It's part of his technique, sweetie. Keep listening. You'll see."

The remark encouraged Shaw as hoped. "I hear you, brother. You can say it out straight. Randall's one weird kid. Rosie was a saint putting up with him."

Randall dropped his head, and Olivia made a tiny sound of outrage in her throat. Alex was behind them immediately, opening her arms and enveloping them as a mother bird covered her young in the nest. "'Weird' doesn't equal 'bad,' remember?"

"She had endless patience," Shaw continued, his eyes going soft, and Bobby once again saw the change when conversation shifted to Rosalind. "Never stressed over him or his funny ways." Then Shaw further confounded him by adding hastily, "Of course, Randall's never been a bad kid, just spooky sometimes. His teachers all loved him, and he's always been on good behavior." He smiled depreciatingly. "Not like me. I was in the principal's office nearly every week."

"Class clown?"

"More like conning classmates out of lunch money and stuff. Besides, as I got older, I couldn't see the point of being there. Once you learned the basics, who cared about the rest? Reading was a chore; history was just dates and names—nothing had a connection to my life. I never got the point of reading the way Rosie or Randall did—man, those boy detectives were so fake. Fiction never made much sense to me, reading made-up stuff off in a corner. I'd rather be out with people, talking, having a beer, and a laugh–"

Highly extroverted father with a shy, introverted kid, Alex thought as she stood with a hand on either child's shoulder.

Bobby asked pointedly, "Don't you mean deceiving them?"

"It's what I do." Shaw smiled, taking no offense; his eyes twinkled, and it lit up his face so that Alex could understand Rosalind's attraction. A small-town, rigorously chaperoned young girl—for they had understood Rosalind was completing high school when she met her husband—might have seen a charming man like Shaw as freedom.

"I was my daddy's best pupil, my momma used to say," and now Shaw permitted his voice to ease back into what Bobby realized was his true accent.

"Virginia?" Bobby asked, then corrected, "No, Western Virginia. You don't have the Tidewater drawl."

Shaw laughed. "West Virginia, period. John Denver was wrong, though. Not 'almost heaven' in any way, shape, or form. Not in Wheeling, anyway."

"Your father's best pupil?" Bobby tilted his head, truly curious.

Shaw was quiet for a moment, considering. "Mr. Goren, you ever see a TV series, Centennial? From the early 80s, maybe? We're allowed to watch it here because it's 'historic.' 'Educational' and all that."

"I've read the book," Bobby responded. "The miniseries was 1978. I watched it with my mother. She was a librarian, and it was...um...the sort of history story she liked."

Shaw chuckled. "Sounds like Randall would enjoy your company way more than he ever did mine. Anyway, Daddy, Momma, and I were like the Wendells—minus the dead body under the riverbank. A happy little family of grifters."

"No surprise there," Alex thought to herself.

"It explains your presence here and your method of providing for yourself in the past. But why so hard on Randall?" Bobby asked abruptly, and Shaw snapped to attention.

"What was I supposed to do? It was different when he was small and cute, and the neighbor ladies cooed over him. If he preferred stuffed animals and blocks to toy cars and didn't want to play T-ball, who cared? But as he got older, the kids started jeering and pushed him around. If he didn't toughen up, they'd make his life hell. I didn't want that for him. But he just buried his head in the Hardy Boys and acted like he didn't care..."

"I did," Randall said in a tiny voice.

"...or he'd run off to watch Columbo with his mother. All I wanted was for him to learn the basics so he could pretend to play along. That was the first thing I learned: blend in with the pack. Don't be the standout unless you can control the situation. I tried playing catch with him, and at least clue him into sports terms so he could fit in better. Nothing worked. It got so he wouldn't listen to anyone when he read—I got right pissed off once and tossed a book away on him." Shaw was rueful. "I guess that was goin' a little far. Rosie reamed me out for that one."

Shaw wiped his hand over his face and permitted his emotions to slip. "I miss Rosie, Mr. Goren, even though we were night and day. I made the cardinal sin of any grifter. I fell in love with one of my marks. She fell right back."

"And then you got her pregnant?"

Something flickered in Shaw's eyes, but he answered with a nod, as far as Bobby could tell, still sincere.

Bobby visibly relaxed and gave Shaw his full attention. "So what's your story, Mr. Shaw?" Let them tell their story, he recalled Declan Gage saying. They all want to tell their story. Your job is to listen. Shaw seemed flattered and appeared to recover a little.

"Dad was from Wheeling. He met my mother on a trip to Vegas. She was a croupier at a casino; when things were bad, she turned tricks."

"What's that mean?" Randall whispered, and before Alex could react, Olivia said swiftly, "Card tricks, probably. Maybe at blackjack. That's something you play at a casino."

Olivia merely bit her lip and looked innocent when Alex's eyes darted to her, while Randall forgot his question in concentrating on his father. Alex suddenly wondered what other adult conversations Olivia had listened in on while living in Paris.

"We moved around a lot—I must've gone to 25 different schools—but our range was normally Ohio and East as far as New York. By the time I was seven, I had little parts in their cons and was a seasoned pro by the time I went on my own at eighteen with my daddy's blessing. I started small, then graduated to larger grifts. Earned enough to keep me alive and put some by. Occasionally put a foot wrong and almost got caught, but did better every year. In the spring of 2012, I got a call from my daddy. He said he had a good prospect for me—a project needing the touch of a young man with a quick tongue. Ended up in a podunk town outside of York, Pennsylvania, running a long-term investment scam on the head of the local co-op, Micah Troyer."

"My grandpa," Randall murmured behind the glass.

"Troyer was a farm boy and grew up in a Mennonite offshoot town. He ran away from the manure stink and served a couple years on a reefer carrying fruit from Central America. On his tenth trip, he met a girl named Antona Rivera-Bonahona—there's a mouthful, huh?—in El Salvador and moved heaven and earth to bring her home with him. Like the Prodigal Son, he returned home. Papa Troyer welcomed them both, they settled down, and eventually Micah took over the co-op from his dad. I remember Antona—she was a good egg and would've been real shocked to find out the truth about me.

"Anyway, ol' Micah did well for himself, and they had the two children, Rosalind and Claudio." He quirked his lips. "Micah had two things that he adored besides his wife: the Bible and Shakespeare. My daddy schooled me well in Bible verses; he said there was nothing like them in convincing marks—that and quoting Abraham Lincoln. Micah and I used to trade Bible verses like baseball cards.

"In the end, I'm not sure who played who. I'd feel like I was reeling him in, and then he'd fall back into the creek, still resisting me like a catfish. By all rights, I should have given up, and by all rights, he should have sent me packing, but by then Rosie and I had become attached. When he found out she was knocked up, he made me marry her. Except I didn't mind. But it struck me that with a baby coming, I needed something steadier than grifting. So I renewed acquaintance with my 'good buddy' Hank in Manhattan. I met him back when his scams sometimes crossed with my dad's. Made sure we lived in Connecticut, though, so Rosie wouldn't find out what I did for a living. She thought well of me, and I didn't want to ruin it." He snorted. "Hank. Some 'good buddy.' He took advantage of Rosie and got her killed." He looked sharply at Bobby. "At least that's what they told me. Or was that part a lie?"

Alex saw Bobby's shoulders hitch. They hadn't gone into minute details with Randall about what happened to Rosalind, just telling him that "some bad people had hurt her."

"No, that's what I was told," was Bobby's careful response.

"Son of a bitch," Shaw said, leaning back in his seat. "Anyway, you asked. Thus endeth my story. 'Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.' Proverbs 22:6. I was my father's son to the end."

"So s-selling drugs was your idea of upward mobility?"

"With a wife and kid, sure! I resolved that there'd be no feast or famine like I had growing up or the moving around. And It was a good deal, taking over established territory. The product was trusted, and there was a new crop of customers every semester: snooty rich-ass college kids, all looking for a thrill. But Fenton was the only one to die. I'm sorry he took his sister with him. The girl didn't deserve it."

"And in nine years, you never told Rosalind what you did for a living."

Shaw squirmed in his chair, looking embarrassed. "She had a hard enough time understanding after I was convicted. She was the one person who believed I was a good guy. Hell, she still came to visit after she found out I was dealing drugs."

"And your son?" Bobby asked deliberately.

"What about him?" Shaw sighed in resignation.

Bobby tapped the face of his watch fiercely. "You do r-realize you still haven't asked where he is or how he's doing."

"I'm not dense, Mr. Goren! I figured that out a whole lot of sentences ago," Shaw retorted, bridling. "All these questions, puffing up when I talk trash about him...you're caring for him, aren't you? You don't mind doing it either—just that question's made it very clear. I get it—you have more in common with my kid than I do. No reason to rub it in."

Alex saw Randall straighten, puzzled. Bobby asked, "So...you regret...that you never got along?"

"I learned to live with it," Shaw said stiffly. "When a guy has a son...he wants to bond on some level. Once he was older, Randall and I had nothing in common except his mother." He sat forward, crossing his arms on the table and leaning on them. "So I'll ask since you made an issue of it... how's he doing? Must've cut him up terribly when Rosie died. They were like this," and he lifted his right hand and waved it back and forth with forefinger and middle finger set tightly next to each other.

"It did," Bobby answered quietly. "He's still...processing."

Shaw nodded. "He's doing okay at school, right? That was the one thing Rosie wanted for him."

"His teachers understand his thought processes and restlessness. They make allowances, while...um...he learns to make compromises. Randall's extremely intelligent, Mr. Shaw. As an adult, he'll be able to do anything he pleases."

"Good," Shaw said. "Hopefully he'll be as smart about his friends as about his school subjects and won't end up in a dump like this."

"Never!" Olivia hissed so fervently that Randall jumped.

Bobby sighed, "From my experience, you don't need to be stupid to end up here."

"Yeah, you'd know, wouldn't you?" Shaw chuckled. "You're a Fed. T-man?"

"G-man," Bobby corrected so quickly that Shaw chuckled.

"Yeah, I forgot you two still have those rivalries. Like the park rangers versus the forest rangers. So what's your story?"

Bobby humored him. "Army CID. NYPD: narcotics and Major Case. Eight-year FBI field agent. Now I do consulting work occasionally, but concentrate on lecturing the new guard on criminal profiling."

Shaw hooted. "Jesus, Randall's questions must be nonstop!"

"They are, but I'm happy to answer what I can," Bobby returned good-naturedly. "And my wife's a legacy cop—father and grandfather before her—vice and Major Case—she was my p-partner for eleven years and managed not to kill me—and then went on to Homeland Security."

"Good creds." Shaw's face softened.

Bobby added. "He has a little sister now, too."

"Hope he's minding his manners with her—he can be mighty opinionated. How's she managing with him?"

"She's just as much a book lover as he is. She plays tennis at school, paints in watercolors, cross-stitches, and keeps a blog—with our supervision, of course. Not to mention she's skipped two grades in school. They...challenge each other."

Randall stifled a laugh, and Olivia giggled.

The prisoner looked over his shoulder to his watchdog. "Say, Mack...Officer Mackensie...you think they might let me read a kid's blog in the library?"

The guard eyed him, then Bobby. "Give me the URL, Agent Goren, and we'll check it out. He'd do it under supervision, of course, and we'd make certain he wouldn't be able to comment."

"Everything by the numbers," Shaw agreed, nodding.

Bobby asked, "Would you like to see him?"

Shaw straightened in his seat. "'Him'? Randall's here?" His eyes flashed to the mirror, and his color rose, recalling what he'd revealed about his family. "Rosie only brought him the one time. He freaked and started pacing the room crazy fast. Scared Rosie to death. He said it was creepy and wouldn't even look at me. Finally, the matron said she'd watch him while Rosie and I talked. Matron told me later he just huddled on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees."

Randall looked shamefaced and he whispered, "He's right. I acted like a baby–"

Alex enfolded him with her arms and said softly, "This place is creepy, Randall. It's supposed to be creepy. As a deterrent, so people won't glamorize having to come here. There was nothing wrong with how you reacted."

"Your dad's a wanker," Olivia argued. "You're here now, and you've been fine. And you'll look at him!"

"Don't push him, Min," Alex bade gently, smoothing her hair. "And please stop using that word."

"I'll look at him all right," Randall declared with shaky bravado, yet kept his eyes downcast.

Unaware of the drama in the other room, Bobby told Shaw, "I'd like to introduce the rest of the family to you first."

My turn now. Alex smiled at both children, then opened the door and stepped into the room wearing what Bobby called her "glacier face." She'd dressed as she had for work in a businesslike monochrome palette: unbuttoned dark blazer, a scoop-necked blouse, tailored pants cinched with a wide dark belt, and two-inch chunk heels. Shaw immediately stood up respectfully, and Bobby saw Mackensie snap to attention.

"Alex, this is Sterling Shaw." Bobby's voice told Shaw he was obliged to show respect. "This is my wife, Alexandra Eames, former NYPD, retired at the rank of captain."

Shaw's deferential attitude indicated his acceptance. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Alex acknowledged him with a curt nod, then motioned at the doorway. "This is our daughter Olivia."

Olivia's stance told him she brooked no nonsense, not even from an adult. She walked in defiantly, chin up, in a conservative white blouse and a trim, dark blue vest over her sharp-creased navy-blue school pants, the outfit finished off with a white headband that made her honey-blonde hair appear darker and her black school shoes. She looked the epitome of a British schoolgirl and could have walked from the pages of an Enid Blyton book.

"Pleased to meet you," she said stiffly in a voice that indicated exactly the opposite and curtsied as Luisa Carvallo had taught her. Then she stepped sideways to join Alex, her eyes balefully fixed on Shaw.

Finally, Randall appeared. In the crisply-pressed long-sleeved burgundy-colored shirt, dark pants, and school shoes, he did, as Olivia had predicted, "look badass." Alex had tamed his hair this time, and the outfit made him look taller and older. As Olivia had urged him, he kept his head high and met Sterling Shaw's eyes. "Hi, Dad."

Alex would tell Dr. Chaudry later that Shaw's reaction was worth the long drive to New Amsterdam and back. His look of disbelief, complete with wide eyes and parted mouth, said it all, and he thrust out his hand mechanically. Randall stepped forward to shake it. Olivia gave her mother, and then her father, a little triumphant grin.

Bobby stood up and stepped aside, motioning to the chair. "Sit down, buddy, so you can talk with your father."

Randall complied, his eyes flickering up and down, taking uneasy notice of the aged scrapes on the wall, the burly prison guard with the sinister truncheon hanging from his belt, and the cuffs around his father's wrists. Shaw also sat down, clasping his hands in front of him.

"You're looking good, Rand," he said equably. "These seem like nice folks. Are you okay with them?"

Randall glanced up. "Yes, sir."

"You must...miss your mother. You...doin' okay?"

Randall shrugged, sniffling once, and Shaw nodded. "Yeah, I know. I miss her, too." He shifted in his seat, swallowed, then continued, "And you have a new school, I suppose, since you're probably not living in Wilton anymore?"

"No, sir. We're in Milbury. That's south of Southbury, off Route 67. We're just off Main Street. It's a big house right on the corner. One room is the library and is full of books. Mr. G works there..."

Bobby transferred chairs from the anteroom as Randall hesitated at first, then gained confidence at his father's respectful attitude as he talked about the house, "Aunt Abbi," Ana, and Carlos, the Dark Crystal and trivia, Big Brothers, and finally about attending school at St. Gregory's and learning ASL after class. After five minutes, Olivia discreetly poked Alex, who withdrew from her crossbag a little cross-stitch ornament kit that had been brought along "just in case." Olivia stitched on a little fox design as Randall rambled on. Shaw gave him his entire attention, nodding and commenting occasionally, and it wasn't long before Mackensie cleared his throat.

Shaw patted Randall's hand. "I'm getting notice here, kid. I need to interrupt you. Sorry."

Alex responded sternly, "Is there something you need, Mr. Shaw?"

"I appreciate this visit," Shaw responded sincerely, "but don't think you're here just to show me how slick Rand looks and get me caught up on his activities. So what goes? Mack's on the clock now. He's a fair guy and I wouldn't want him to get in trouble."

Bobby said firmly but reasonably, "Your jacket says your first opportunity for parole won't be until 2032. Since Randall will be past age eighteen by then and aged out of the foster care system, we wondered if you would be willing to give up your parental rights immediately and let us adopt him rather than remain his foster parents. We love having him with us and don't want to see him leave."

Alex added, "It should free your mind since you wouldn't be financially responsible for his higher education."

Shaw flinched, then his face quickly transitioned to a smart-aleck grin, leaning forward in anticipation. "And what's in it for me?"

Mackensie gave a cynical snort.

Alex, who had relaxed as Randall and his father had talked, reverted to her glacial expression again. "Nothing, unless it's satisfaction in knowing your son has a family who cares about him," she answered crisply. "We don't negotiate with blackmailers."

She'd intended the words to sting, and Shaw's reaction showed her that her figurative arrow struck home. But he only set his mouth into a thin line, his eyes sober. "Good! That was the only acceptable answer. But the answer I need isn't from you, Ms. Eames. Randall," and the boy's arresting hazel eyes fixed on him, "is this what you want? It would be permanent—once the legal papers are signed, it's done."

Alex could hear Bobby's voice eighteen months ago in Paris, addressing Olivia: "This is very important. You have to think about this..."

Randall swallowed, glancing from Olivia's owl eyes to Bobby's encouraging smile and finally settling on Alex's affectionate expression. "Yes, sir. It's what I want."

Shaw eased back in the chair, disappointment briefly flickering across his handsome face, then capitulated. "All right. Just bring me any legal papers, and I'll sign them."

"You'd be required to appear in court," Alex added sharply.

"I'm willing to do that, too."

"Just like that," she retorted with barely concealed resentment, "like he's a puppy to be given away? No protests at all?"

"Why should I fight? I'm not doing him much good here, am I?" Shaw returned defensively. "In fact, I didn't do him much good before I was here, did I?"

"You couldn't help it," Randall said abruptly. "I wasn't what you expected."

Olivia blurted out, "Randall!"

"You weren't," was Shaw's truthful admission. "But...seeing you here, looking so good...and confident with yourself...I could've tried to understand, but I didn't. These folks...they understand you, right?"

Randall nodded. "Yes, sir. But...I never tried, either, sir. Maybe I coulda brought a book and watched a ball game with you. I do that when I watch Olivia's favorite show. Or tried harder when we played catch. Brother Michael says sometimes you have to compromise."

Shaw rolled his eyes back at Mackensie. "You're in a great location for learning compromise. But don't learn it in a place like this, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Besides, I was the adult. I was the one who should have made the compromises." Now Shaw turned his attention to Alex. "I know this will sound sexist, ma'am, and if you get pissed at me, it's on me—but they can't go alone." He pulled a much-folded five-dollar bill from his shirt pocket, one he had saved for cigarettes from the prisoners' commissary. "Our visitor's cafeteria isn't much, but there's a nice selection of ice cream. I'd like to treat Randall to one, and your little girl, too, if that's acceptable. Rand, they have those chocolate drumsticks you like."

Olivia checked out her parents. They were doing that eye-talking thing they did—it was eerie sometimes—and finally, Alex favored Shaw with a genuine smile. "Thank you, Mr. Shaw. I'm sure these two are ready for a treat."

"Thanks, Dad," Randall said, standing up and shaking his hand firmly.

Olivia offered her hand more reluctantly, and Shaw shook it gravely. She burst out swiftly, "Mr. Shaw, Papa and Mama said I couldn't mention Randall's real name on my blog or what he looks like or anything about his past unless I had your permission. May I have it?" She paused for breath, then assured, "They're very strict on what I can write. I don't say private things, not ever."

Bobby shot her a sideways glance, but her eyes were fixed on Shaw, who responded affirmatively. "Sure, hon, if Randall's okay with it."

"Will you write it down, saying you agree?" Olivia asked. "Mr. Fessiden, our attorney, says everything should be in writing."

"Olivia!" Alex protested.

Shaw grinned at her. "Randall needs someone like you. You'll always have his back. If Officer Mackensie will let me have pen and paper, I will put that in writing for you, Miss Goren."

Olivia curtsied to him. "Thank you very much, Mr. Shaw."

Alex shepherded the children out the door, and the last thing the three men heard was Randall's awed "I didn't know he knew my favorite ice cream."

Shaw bowed his head, for the first time resembling his son. "You have a budding contracting officer there, Mr. Goren."

"Sometimes she surprises even me," Bobby said dryly. He paused, giving Alex and the kids more distance. His next question was in a low voice. "So, what did you need to say in confidence?"

Shaw consulted the guard again, but Mackensie had relaxed against the wall waiting for Shaw's next move. "Mackensie? You'll keep this on the QT? Not for me, for the kid."

The guard eyed him, considering a sarcastic response until he saw the appeal in Shaw's eyes.

"All right. You keep your nose clean, and I'll keep my mouth shut. Unless you admit to a crime."

"Oh, there was a crime, but for once it wasn't mine," was Shaw's rejoinder. "Everything I told you was God's honest truth, Mr. Goren, but there was a tiny omission."

"Figured," Mackensie grunted, but Bobby only nodded. "Go on, Mr. Shaw."

"I meant what I said—I was stupid, in my dad's estimation anyway, and fell for Rosie almost the moment I met her. This was a con that took a couple of months to pull off; I had to establish myself in the town, then get Micah and his friends to see me as one of them. Rosalind was her last semester of high school, and she was a beauty...but not just that." He paused, then continued reminiscently, "Shy and smart and sweet-tempered. She was in the 4-H and the first time I visited the family farm, she was showing off this heifer—I learned that day from her that's what you call a young female cow—that she'd raised from a calf. So it didn't hurt the scam any by acting like I was interested in ol' Micah's handsome daughter. It lent it verisimilitude because it was true.

"Then I was away about a week as part of the scam. I hid out in Gettysburg, supposedly on a business trip for my old man, the 'bank president.' Her smile was gone when I got back. She was quiet, a little sad, nervous even. I couldn't figure out what was rankling her."

Bobby suddenly recalled his mother and Mark Ford Brady. Something he'd said to Alex as they were examining evidence. "I was looking in the family album. My mom, she was happy, you know. She was smiling, and then something happened. She was never the same after that. She was just never the same."

Shaw continued over the turmoil in his mind. "When I'd come by to speak to her father, she'd hang around the perimeter of the room, and before I left for the night, I'd go out to the porch to talk with her, cheer her up with...awkward guy jokes, I guess you'd call them. I seemed to be all she had to cheer her up. If she'd wanted to confide in me, she couldn't even do it—ol' Micah kept an eagle eye on us, as you might imagine with a pretty daughter like that." He paused to make his point. "We were never alone, Mr. Goren, not once."

Bobby straightened up immediately and Shaw nodded. "You've already worked part of this through, haven't you? You had to have already noticed that Rand doesn't look a whit like me."

"Randall's not your biological son."

"Nope. So if that makes adopting him any easier, you're free to use the info. I'll submit to a paternity test. Looked it up, though. In Connecticut, if you're married to the child's mother, you're the child's father, unless there's another legal claim that can be established."

"Classmate?"

"I never asked. I didn't want to hurt Rosie any more than she was hurt already. And all her dad ever told me...was that since I seemed to care for his daughter, he'd give me ten grand to, um...he called it 'remove the stain from his family.' I'll tell you now, Mr. Goren, Rosie had no willing part in the 'stain.'" He shrugged. "So I get the girl...and the ten grand. Good seed money for a new life. What's a guy to do when offered a deal like that?" He flushed in anger. "From such an 'outstanding pillar of the community' as Micah Troyer."

Bobby let him stew for a moment. "She never took it out on the baby?"

"Not a time. I didn't know what Rosie had gone through—a rape or a seduction—and while I wasn't 'educated' about this sort of thing, I watched out for her. I mean, if she'd said she wanted an abortion or to put the kid up for adoption, I would have gone along. But no, the day he was born she just took that mite in her arms and loved him. And kept loving him, despite his...crazy stuff. Peas couldn't touch meat. Potatoes couldn't touch peas. The way his books got handled. How he'd babble on and on about something he liked. And I thought I could love him for her sake, but as he got older, he quit making an effort...but so did I. Trying to buck him up so the neighbors' kids would at least ignore him was our last big interaction. It just drove him further away." Shaw shrugged. "Thinking back, it woulda pushed me away, too."

"You are somethin', Shaw," growled Mackensie from behind. "I thought I had you pegged, and turns out you're human."

"So I'm only half the asshole you thought, Mack?"

"'Mack' yourself," the guard retorted, but it had no sting this time.

"One more thing," Shaw said darkly, "which is why I need Officer Mackensie to keep mum. It might affect Randall's health, although I don't think there were any nasty genes on Rosie's side of the family." He scowled. "When Rand was a baby, he looked like...a baby. By the time he changed from baby to little boy...well, to me...he seemed to be the spit'n'image of Mal. The nose. Those mixed-color eyes of his that Rosie called hazel. Malachi Troyer, Micah's brother. Met him a few times. Overly friendly, in my estimation, with Rosie, while she tried to avoid him. Self-important shit, too. Town alderman." He paused. "Just sayin'."

Bobby rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. "It would account for her change in personality."

Mackensie said reluctantly, "I let this go long because of what you had to discuss. But he's over his time, Agent Goren, and I don't want the warden giving me hell."

"How about that paper and pen, Officer Mackensie?" Shaw requested wearily. "I'll make it quick. But I did promise Miss Olivia. Bring two sheets, please."

Mackensie shrugged, secured Shaw to the table restraint, and was gone for a few minutes in which Shaw stared at his hands and Bobby regarded him with thoughtful eyes. When Mackensie returned with two sheets of printer paper and a Bic pen, Shaw quickly scribbled a short message on one sheet, a longer missive on the other, then capped the pen to hand back to the guard and gave the sheets to Bobby.

"Miss Olivia's note is on top," he said meaningfully, then rattled his hands against the restraints. "We'd better get moving, Officer Mackensie. I'm looking forward to my yard today and don't want to lose it."

Bobby stood back as Mackensie released Shaw from the table. They had begun to turn away when Bobby said softly, "Mr. Shaw–"

Mackensie halted while Shaw turned to him. "Several weeks ago, we went to Newport, Rhode Island, for Olivia's birthday. We had a picnic and rented kites. Randall fell in love with the spot. Next Sunday the four of us, and a few friends, will have a memorial ceremony for Rosalind at Brenton Point, at the compass rose. Our friend TJ has a friend with a small fishing boat; afterward, he'll take us out the prescribed distance, and Randall will scatter Rosalind's ashes. He said it would be a pretty place to leave her." He saw Shaw swallow, the last of the hubris draining away. "We have a friend, Tim, who's good with tech. Once he blurs the children's faces, we'll put the video on Olivia's blog. If I could prevail on you, Officer Mackensie–"

The guard nodded. "I'll see what I can do, Agent Goren."

"Mr. Goren," Shaw said tiredly, "I see how he looks. If I'd shown Rand the patience you have...but never mind. It's done now. But his mother would be grateful."

When they had left the room, Bobby scanned both notes thoughtfully, then ambled through the hall, out between security checkpoints manned with pairs of guards, and made his way to the visitors' cafeteria, a battered niche featuring old plastic tables and chairs. He immediately identified the back of Alex's head; they were seated at the rear. The children had finished their ice cream, and Olivia was cross-stitching while Randall kicked his feet as he gamed on a little hand-held device. Alex had a Kindle in her hand and had been ostensibly reading, but Bobby assumed she had probably read the same page several times now.

"Hey," she said noncommittally, but her eyes were asking questions and his were signaling 'later.'" Then he smiled at her. "Did you get yourself an ice cream?"

"I'm watching my girlish figure," she quipped.

"I keep it under close surveillance and find it fine," Bobby returned, amused, then added, "I saw you roll those eyes, Min."

Olivia chortled, returning to her stitchery, but Randall abandoned his game; when Bobby returned with two chocolate eclair bars, handing one to Alex, he asked shyly, "What did you and my dad talk about?"

"Your grandfather's family," Bobby said truthfully, biting into the treat, "and how he met your mother. She had a 4-H project that year, a heifer cow."

"What's 4-H?"

"Farm kids do it," Olivia said without looking up. "Raise an animal or a veg, or do needlework or quilting."

"You're behind the times, missy," Bobby teased. "4-H does STEM now, too." He presented her with a sheet of printer paper. "For you."

Olivia read it, then showed it to Alex with a squeal of glee. "When we get home, I have to edit all my posts! Check it out, Randall!"

"I, Sterling Arthur Shaw, do give Miss Olivia Goren permission to use the real name, description, and background of her foster brother Randall Epifanio Shaw in her blog, so long as he agrees to be included under those terms and she has the permission of her parents." A flourished signature, "Sterling A. Shaw," and the date were below.

The second sheet he handed to Alex.

"The suits will want much more than this, but consider it a start:

'I, Sterling Arthur Shaw, as his only living relative, desire to revoke my parental rights to the child known as Randall Epifanio Shaw, birth date January 6, 2013, birth registered in the Fairfield County courthouse on January 9, 2013, so that he may be available for adoption by Robert Goren, Alexandra Eames Goren, and Olivia Goren. His mother, Rosalind Celia Troyer Shaw, passed from this world on September 29, 2024. I take this action in hopes of Randall living a happier and more stable life under the roof of the Goren family. I will sign any legal documents required and, if necessary, appear in court, subject to any restrictions and regulations from the New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision, to support this action.

'Sterling A. Shaw
'Saturday, October 26, 2024

'Witnesses: John G. Mackensie, Robert Goren

'Psalms 127:4-5'"

"I'm not familiar with the verse," Bobby said. "And we should be getting on our way."

Randall shoved the little game into his pocket. "Um–" and he swallowed, then stared at his shoes. "Since I'm staying, and it's okay with my father, can...can...do you think I could call you 'Mom' and 'Dad'?"

"I would be honored, sweetie," Alex said, her eyes crinkling with her smile.

"Mommmm...not now," was the anguished reply. "Someone might hear."

Olivia snickered and Alex whispered, "I forgot. I'm sorry."

"Do something for your father, though?" Bobby requested, patting his shoulder. "Send him a card now and then?"

Randall looked up, tilting his head, his grin spreading. "A compromise? Okay...Dad."

Gibson watched Shaw's spent face with disbelief as Mackensie escorted him back into the cell. "What's going on? What did the Fed ask you about?" When Shaw only grunted, rubbing at wrists newly free of handcuffs, Gib turned to Officer Mackensie. "Christ, Mackensie, what happened? Silver looks like the gray goose ran him over. Twice."

"Not my story to tell," Mackensie said roughly, locking the cell and strolling off, catcalls coming from neighboring enclosures.

"You okay, Silver?"

"Yeah," Shaw said, gingerly handing out the little chess board before flopping himself down on the bottom bunk. "But I could use some space right now, okay?"

"Sure," but Gib couldn't resist asking again, "What happened out there?"

"Amos 5:24," Shaw murmured, turning his face to the wall.

Gib shrugged, then he spilled the plastic chess pieces into the clear plastic container meant for the purpose, retrieving a deck of cards from the same container, and laid them out on the chess board for solitaire.

Because Alex was driving—because Alex always drove—Bobby had his cell phone out and had the page pulled up before they departed the prison grounds.

"The King James version comes off as sexist today," he said thoughtfully. "But, true. For both of us."

"Hmm?" she said, mindful of the cars darting in and out ahead of her.

"Shaw's verses from Psalms:

'As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man;
so are children of the youth.
Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.'"

Alex checked out the rear-view mirror. Randall, seated behind her, was reading another Hardy Boys book, feet braced on the rear of her seat. Next to him, Olivia was dozing, curled sideways like a kitten, cuddling her stuffed fox and clutching Shaw's signed permission.c

"Happy is the woman, too," she smiled.

Notes:

+ Amos 5:24: "But let judgment run down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream."

+ The "grey goose" is the prison bus.