Chapter 8 Holt #2
She was beautiful, with dark auburn hair and blue eyes that seemed to hold depths of experience beyond her apparent age.
But it wasn’t her beauty that stopped his heart.
It was the way her features arranged themselves in a pattern that was achingly familiar, like looking at a photograph he’d carried in his wallet for decades.
She looked just like June. Not exactly, but close enough to make his chest constrict with recognition.
The same determined chin, the same graceful way of holding herself, even the same slight tilt of her head when she was listening.
For a moment, Holt wondered if his recent dreams about his ex-wife were causing him to see her face in strangers.
“Holt, I’d like you to meet our Fire Captain, Willa Parker,” his mother said, making the introduction.
“Hi,” Willa said, offering him a warm smile as he stood and walked over to shake her hand, biting back the pain that sliced through him when he’d ruthlessly pushed himself off the chair.
But as their eyes met, something flickered across her expression.
A flash of recognition that she clearly couldn’t place.
“Have we met before?” Willa asked, her brow furrowed as she tried to recall his face.
“I don’t think so,” Holt managed, finding his voice though his heart was still racing. “But I do have one of those faces, I guess.” He forced a laugh, trying to cover his own confusion.
“I’m sorry,” Willa said, shaking her head with obvious embarrassment. “How rude of me. It’s just that you look so familiar.”
“My father’s been on television a few times,” his son said, entering after getting ready for work. “Hi, Willa.”
“Hi, Rad,” Willa greeted him.
“My dad’s the Director of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit,” Rad explained.
“That must be it,” Willa said, though she still looked puzzled. “Nice to meet you, Director Dillinger. I hope you’re feeling better.”
“Thanks,” Holt said, remembering how news traveled in small towns. “I’m getting there.”
Tyler appeared with another teenage boy who was obviously Andy, and Holt could see immediately why his grandson had been drawn to this new friend.
Andy Parker had the kind of quiet confidence that came from growing up with a strong parent, and the way he greeted the adults showed good manners without being overly formal.
She turned to Rad. “Can you still drop the boys off?” Willa asked him.
“Yes, of course,” Rad said. “Are you ready, Tyler?”
“Let me just change my shirt,” Tyler said, and rushed off with Andy to his room.
Willa turned to Mina. “Margo asked me if you had that recipe you promised her?”
“The one for the lemon bars?” his mother asked.
“Yes, I think so,” Willa said.
“Come, I’ll get it for you,” Holt’s mother turned and started walking toward the kitchen.
Willa turned toward Holt. “It’s nice to meet you, Director Dillinger. I hope your recovery goes smoothly.” She looked in the direction Tyler and Andy had run. “Bye Andy, behave yourself, I love you.”
“Bye, Mom,” Andy called from down the hall. “Will do. I love you too.”
Willa gave Holt another smile before turning and following Mina into the kitchen, leaving him and his son alone in the living room.
“Parker?” Holt said suddenly, turning to his son. His brows knitted together as memory clicked into place. “Is she related to the Fire Captain who died in that fire ten years ago?”
“Yes,” his son confirmed. “She’s Shaun Parker’s wife. Widow, I mean.”
“Oh,” Holt said, his heart squeezing with sudden understanding. “Is Andy her only child?”
“No, she has three kids. Andy’s the middle one. There’s an older daughter named Grace and a younger girl, Becky.”
“How awful for them,” Holt murmured, thinking of what it must be like to lose a parent so young.
The familiar ache of old loss stirred in his chest, the same pain he’d carried since his father’s death, his sister’s passing, and the end of his marriage to June. The only good thing to come out of his marriage to Lillian was his son, Rad.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the melancholy thoughts. He was being ridiculous, seeing June’s face in strangers, letting his recent dreams about their failed marriage color his perception of reality. The head injury must be affecting him more than he’d realized.
Fifteen minutes later, his son left to drop the boys off at the outdoor movie night in the town square gardens before heading to the police station.
His mother had gone to the store, and the cottage grew quiet again, filled only with the distant sound of waves and the odd creak of the house as it settled.
Holt took his iced tea to the back deck, settling into one of the Adirondack chairs that faced the Gulf. The view should have been soothing. The endless blue water stretching to the horizon, seabirds wheeling overhead, the rhythmic sound of waves against the shore.
Instead, the sound of the ocean seemed to amplify the restlessness in his chest. After finishing his drink, he kicked off his shoes and called to Duchess, who appeared immediately with her tail wagging.
“Come on, girl,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”
The beach was nearly deserted in the late afternoon, just a few families packing up their umbrellas and coolers as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. Holt walked slowly, mindful of his healing injuries but grateful for the movement after days of hospital beds.
His mind wandered as they strolled, processing everything that had happened over the past week.
The warehouse, the shooting, the strange dreams he’d been having about June.
It felt surreal to think that Marcus Volkov was finally dead, that the case that had defined his entire career was closed.
He should feel relieved, triumphant even.
Instead, he felt oddly hollow, as if removing the driving force of revenge from his life had left him without direction.
The sound of laughter drew his attention, and he looked up to realize he’d walked much farther than he’d intended. Two figures were approaching along the waterline, an elderly woman and someone younger, their voices carrying clearly in the salt air.
“Gran,” the younger voice called, warm with affection and gentle concern, “you know you’re not supposed to be walking this far.”
“Oh, honey, just a few more steps and then we’ll turn around,” came the reply, and Holt’s world stopped turning.
That voice. He knew that voice better than his own heartbeat, had heard it in his dreams and memories for thirty-eight years. It was older now, mellowed by time and experience, but unmistakably familiar.
Time seemed to slow as two figures rounded a small dune and came into full view. The younger woman was tall and graceful, with auburn hair, but it was the older woman beside her who made his breath catch in his throat.
June.
It was impossible, but there she was, walking on the same beach where he’d played as a child, looking exactly like the woman who’d haunted his thoughts since the moment he’d left their Cambridge apartment nearly four decades ago.
Her hair was still dark brown, and there were fine lines around her eyes that spoke of laughter and sorrow in equal measure.
But her posture, her profile, the way she moved, it was undeniably June.
“June?” Holt breathed, the name escaping him without conscious thought.
She looked up at the sound of his voice and stopped so abruptly that sand scattered around her feet. Her face went white as recognition dawned, and her eyes, those green eyes he’d never forgotten, went wide with shock.
“Holt?” June whispered, swaying slightly on her feet.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis as they stood there staring at each other across twenty feet of sand and thirty-eight years of separation. Behind her, the young woman called out in alarm.
“Gran!”
June’s legs buckled, and without thinking about his stitches or his healing injuries, Holt lunged forward.
Duchess began barking excitedly, joined by a deeper voice as a Dalmatian appeared from the dunes above them.
But Holt barely registered the commotion as he caught June just before she hit the sand, her weight feeling familiar and strange in his arms after all these years.