Page 16 of Blind Trust
“Huh?”
Elinor winked at Lyla. “Cu-Te. From the periodic table.”
Brynn looked at Lyla and giggled just as Jack, Kekoa, and Nicolás stepped into the kitchen.
“Are we ready to eat?” Kekoa wrapped his arms around Elinor from behind. “I’m feeling swoony.”
“Ugh.” Jack made a face. “Losing my appetite over here.”
“Swoony?” Lyla arched a brow at Kekoa.
“Elinor and I have been watching a PBS series on the Victorian era, and apparently swooning was a thing, but honestly I’m not really sure I believe it was over the men. The poor wahine in those lacy stomach traps were just starving.”
The kitchen was quiet for several seconds before everyone busted into laughter. The kind that filled the room and brought back a few minutes of peace. Her mother always told her God’s blessings came in unexpected ways, and it was easy to consider the friends around her as her favorite blessings.
Brynn handed Lyla a basket filled with sliced garlic bread. She turned to take it to the table and ran into Nicolás, who was carrying a jug of tea and a jug of lemonade from Chick-fil-A.My favorite.
She was about to thank Nicolás for remembering when she caught the dismay on his face pinpointed on her.
“You left your door unlocked.”
“Sorry.” She swallowed. “I got distracted when the girls came in with all the food.”
He stepped closer, his arm reaching around her so that his chest brushed against her arm as he set the jugs down. “Distraction can be dangerous.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught Brynn and Elinor giving her silly looks and mouthing “ooh-la-la” while they fanned themselves.
“We should eat.” Lyla held up the basket of breadsticks between her and Nicolás. “Wouldn’t want Kekoa to swoon from starvation.”
Over the next hour and a half, the six of them consumed one and a half pans of Mama Hudson’s delicious ziti while Jack shared childhood stories about his Italian-American family. The distraction of their presence had been just what she needed.
When dinner was cleaned up and the leftovers were wrapped for Kekoa, Brynn set out the cookies that had been delivered. Lyla was making a pot of coffee when her doorbell rang.
The house grew silent, then the smart home screen showed Director Walsh standing outside her door.
“He always knows when dessert is about to be served.” Lyla’s laugh sounded nervous, and she could feel their stares following her when she went to answer the door.
She twisted the bolt, then opened the door. “You missed dinner.”
“It’s a bad habit, I know.” Tom Walsh had been her father’s best friend since childhood, and as she grew up, he had filled the role of honorary uncle who sometimes seemed to understand her better than her own parents. He’d had a way of guiding her adolescent impulsivity into productive activities like sports or serving the community. Sometimes their personal relationship blurred the lines of their professional one, but she appreciated that, for the most part, Walsh didn’t give her any special treatment. “Everyone here?”
“Yes.” She led him into the kitchen, where he greeted everyone. “There’s some leftover ziti. I can make you a plate.”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” Walsh’s brows lifted, his blue eyes deepening with a fatherly affection she’d come to lean on throughout her life. “Are you okay?”
Everyone in the kitchen was watching her, and she slid onto one of the kitchen stools. “Yeah, of course. Just another one of Jerry’s stupid letters.”
Walsh exhaled. “I don’t have a lot of details, but I spoke with Jim Tolusky, the warden at Paterson Correctional Facility.” Something in the way he looked at her caused a shudder to snake down her spine. “Jerome Michael Miller died two nights ago.”
Lyla’s stomach heaved. This was not what she’d expected to hear at all, and it left her feeling shaky. “What?”
“They found him in the laundry room where he had night detail. Apparent suicide.”
He’s dead.
The room dimmed as she blinked, trying to wrap her head around what she’d heard. Dead? The threats Jerry Miller had beensending her for the last three years had haunted her, and now it was...over.
“I guess I should feel some kind of relief, but”—she met Walsh’s blue eyes—“I don’t.”
