To Gianna’s surprise, the next morning Chris strode into the home during breakfast and took a seat at the table with her, Michael, and Jamie, helping himself to the stack of waffles like he did it every day.

Maybe he did.

“Have you heard from the Portland police detective?” he asked her.

“Michael reached out to him first thing this morning,” Gianna said. Chris looked better than he had yesterday. Like he’d actually had a good night’s sleep. He probably thought the same thing about her.

“What’d he say?” Chris’s hazel eyes studied her over the rim of his coffee cup, and she thought about Jamie’s story from last night. After Violet had gone to sleep, Gianna had asked Jamie a few deeper questions. Jamie had been frank. And the story of Chris’s two years of torture was disturbing. Soul-deep damage was one of the phrases Jamie had used. Still recovering.

Gianna had lain awake for a long time, reviewing the events of the last forty-eight hours. Jamie’s story had filled in some holes and explained some of Chris’s behaviors.

No wonder he was constantly aware of his surroundings; he’d been on guard since he was a child. Her heart had ached as she thought about the young teen who’d lost his innocence too early. He’d become a strong man. One who was sensitive and caring. If the damage had been too deep, she didn’t think he’d be the dependable person she’d seen.

Clearly he’d healed. But how much?

Sunshine streamed into the cheery kitchen nook where they ate, and Gianna noticed he’d shaved. Chris Jacobs cleaned up nicely. “He’s getting in touch with Hawes and Becker. He wants their opinion and to compare notes,” she said.

“Have you heard from the two state detectives?”

“Yes. I talked with Hawes. She said they were just getting ready to enter the cabin. They had a team clear the surrounding area first, determining the shooter was gone so they could start their investigation.”

“What about tracks? Spent casings from the shooting? Did they figure out where the shots came from?” Chris asked.

“Slow down,” Gianna ordered, waving her fork at him. “Hawes didn’t tell me anything except that they felt it was safe to begin. We’ll hear what they found.”

Chris looked antsy. Like he wanted to drive back up into the Cascades and look over the detectives’ shoulders.

“She said they’ll try to get the bodies to the medical examiner’s office by this afternoon.”

“You’ll be there for the autopsies, right?” asked Michael.

Gianna blinked. “I don’t think that would be right.”

“Did you ask Dr. Rutledge? I doubt he’d have a problem with you observing. And I assume either Hawes or Becker will be there, too. It’d be a good time to hear what they found.”

Clearly Michael likes to push boundaries.

“I’ll think about it.” The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to attend. She’d been unable to get the murdered burn victim out of her head. She’d wanted to spend more time studying the photos and discussing them with the detectives or the brothers, but Violet had always been around, so she’d bitten her tongue, not wanting to upset her daughter more. The fact that Gianna hadn’t noticed the medallion when they’d first found the body bothered her. She was a trained observer; she was supposed to notice the details that other people missed. She didn’t believe in making excuses for herself, but she’d been through hell before finding the body. And she hadn’t been on the job at that moment.

She was deeply curious to find out the identity of the dead man in her cabin. Maybe another set of eyes at the autopsy would be a good idea. Once they identified him, hopefully that would lead to who had put her and Violet in danger. If they’d been targeted, she wanted to know why.

“Mom? Grandpa wants to talk to you.” Violet stood in the doorway to the kitchen, holding out her cell phone.

Gianna rose out of her chair. “Did you call him?”

“I texted him when we got here last night. He must have just seen my message.”

“What does he know?” she asked softly.

Violet shrugged. “Everything.”

Gianna silently moaned. She’d hoped to control the elements her uncle heard of the story. She wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about moving. She loved her uncle, but he tried her patience. Saul Messina was a good man. He’d taken her in after the death of her parents and raised her as his own. He’d never married, but had dated a wealth of kind women who were always eager to mother the orphan. Some of them had been genuine; some not so much. Gianna had learned early how to tell the fakes from the sincere ones. And she had learned to not get attached.

She reluctantly accepted the phone and stepped into the hallway, seeking privacy. “Saul?”

“Gianna? Are you all right?” Her uncle still had a hint of Brooklyn in his voice, even though he’d lived in Southern California for thirty years. Homesickness hit her in the gut and she wiped her eyes. She’d lived in New York for only a few years, but the combination of his familiar voice and the realization that she’d truly left behind everything she’d known overwhelmed her.

“We’re fine, Saul. We were very lucky. I owe my life to Violet.”

“What’s this about you being shot at? And possibly drugged? I’m telling you, Gianna, that state has some residents who are a bit feral. Are you sure the two of you are okay?”