Page 88 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

But I couldn’t give him normal. I couldn’t give him peace or quiet or—

Just as full-scale panic seeped in and took over, Lo slipped his hand in mine and rested his head on my shoulder. “Someday,” he said softly.

I closed my eyes and squeezed his hand.

Someday.

* * *

We leftJasper and David’s room untouched until Monday morning before we set out for LA. We’d been tasked with a mission that we had every intention of fulfilling, but neither of us was in a hurry to rummage through their personal belongings. It was one thing to peruse the photos on display and quite another to sift through closets and drawers. It felt like an invasion of privacy even though we were technically doing a favor.

I stood in the bedroom doorway, scrolling messages on my cell while Lorenzo snooped, glancing up when he squealed in delight and set a thick book on a dresser laden with seashells, picture frames, and old bottles of cologne.

I stuffed my phone into my pocket and joined him. “Another photo album?”

“Yeah, this one is dated 1973. These pictures are wonderful. I haven’t found any obvious photos of your family, but—”

“Don’t worry about it. I think we should stick to the script, find the frame and the sweater and—”

“There it is.” Lo pointed to a red cardigan draped over the floral print chair in the corner. “The photo might be on the nightstand. Will you check?”

I opened the nightstand with a little too much force and almost knocked over the smallish silver frame half-hidden behind a ceramic lamp. I studied the wrinkled picture, noting the crooked corner where the photo had been altered so just two men in tuxes remained. They were standing close with wide smiles, their fingertips barely touching.

One shot told a whole story. It had been edited and curated like a masterpiece framed in silver.

“Found it.”

I started to close the drawer but opened it wider when I spotted a tiny book of poetry with a sprig of brittle lavender stuck between the pages.

For reasons I couldn’t explain to save my life, I slipped the book into my jacket pocket.

* * *

Lo insistedon driving directly to Mr. Gowan’s house when we hit LA.

A middle-aged woman with short gray hair and a no-nonsense manner answered the front door and regretfully informed us that Mr. Gowan wasn’t seeing company.

“He’ll want to see us. We have his things,” Lorenzo insisted, holding up a bag.

“I can bring those to Mr. Gowan for you, and I’ll let him know you were here,” she replied.

“But—wait. Where’s Enid?”

“She’s off this evening. I’m the nurse on duty and—”

“Please,” he intercepted. “We can wait in the living room.”

She cast a wary gaze between us. “One moment.”

Five minutes later, she wheeled Jasper into the room and positioned him near the window looking onto his rose garden. He was gaunt and pale, and to be perfectly honest, I felt bad that we’d insisted on seeing him. The new nurse was right. He wasn’t well at all.

“Mr. Gowan,” Lo hurried to the table and slid into the chair closest to the old man. “We just got home and came straight away. Your home in Carmel is so beautiful. The views, the yard, the fireplace…um, we brought your things.”

Jasper’s eyes were cloudy, and his lips were chalk white. He fiddled with his oxygen as he reached for the red sweater. “Dah-ling. Soft…isn’t it?”

Lo pursed his lips and blinked moisture from his eyes. “Yes. It looks delicious.”

Jasper’s laugh was a hollow wheeze that morphed into a cough that sounded like knives scraping against slate. “Delicious.”