“Not necessary.”

“It is for me. Maybe if I’d stayed longer I could’ve helped him see a different way of being. But I saved myself, and I can’t regret it. I’ve got one brother in prison, another who’s so like the old man you can barely tell them apart. Now I’ve got one going in the ground before he hits thirty.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to say it because I didn’t feel it. But I can say it now. I’m sorry, Bo.”

“I thank you for that. I’d like to pay for the damage my brother did to your home, your office, Ms. McCray’s property.”

“Absolutely not.”

“If you won’t take that, I want to ask you to let me pay for any of Traci’s legal expenses.”

“They’re pro bono.”

Bo sighed, squeezed the bridge of his nose. “You don’t owe me or my family a single damn thing, but I’m asking all the same. There has to be some restitution. I want justice for Clint, I want to believe whoever killed him will be caught, tried, and punished. But there has to be restitution for what Clint did for me to settle myself on it all.”

“If you give me your contact information, and a few days, I’ll give you the name of a women’s shelter. You could make a donation.”

Bo closed his eyes briefly, nodded. “I can promise to do that.” He took out his wallet and drew a card from it. “You can contact me when it’s convenient. I’m going to do my duty to my family, then I’m leaving, going back to my wife, my daughters, my life. I won’t be back again.”

He held out a hand, and they shook.

“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

“I’m going to say the same, and thank you for your service, Sergeant Major Draper.”

Bo started back to his car, paused, looked back. “You couldn’t have been more’n thirteen, fourteen when I lit out.”

“That’d be about right.”

“You sure could play baseball.”

Zane watched him head down the road, then sat, picked up the ball again.

Maybe the marines had made Bo Draper, and saved him. But to Zane’s mind, they couldn’t have done either if he hadn’t chosen to let them.

“Not just what you’re born into, who raises you,” he said aloud as he rubbed the ball. “It’s what you do about it.”

He set the ball down, picked up the laptop again, and got back to doing what he could do to protect what mattered to him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Emily pulled up in front of the bungalow with her youngest in tow just after nine a.m. Together she and Brody hauled out the fresh sheets and towels, the soaps, shampoo, lotions, and the bags of groceries the guest had ordered.

Far from a morning person, Brody grumbled and scowled as they carted the supplies. “When I take over the business, I won’t be cleaning cabins.”

Emily just let out a snorting laugh. “Yeah? Let me know how that works out for you, pal.”

Since she heard the television through the open windows, noted the Privacy sign absent from the front door, she shifted her load, knocked.

She had a smile ready when the door opened. “Good morning, Mr. Bingley. Is this a good time for housekeeping?”

He beamed a smile back. “It’s always a good time if I’m not doing it. I was expecting Janey.”

“Janey’s mama tripped, broke her ankle this morning, so we’re covering for her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How’s it going, big guy?”

Brody barely resisted the sneer, dragged out his polite voice. “Just fine, sir.” He walked the groceries straight back to the kitchen. “Do you want to check, sir, make sure your order’s correct?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Brody, you go on and put the groceries away, make sure to pin the receipt to the board there.”

The polite tone dropped away like a stone in a well. “I know, Mom.” Like he hadn’t done it a zillion times before.

“Good, then you can start loading up the trash. I’ll start in the bedroom, Mr. Bingley, if I won’t be in your way.”

“The handy thing about writing? You can do it anywhere. I’ll just take my laptop out on the porch, and get out of your way. I’ll see if the view inspires me to get my quota done this morning.”

She wasn’t bad-looking for an old broad, he thought as he unplugged his laptop from the charger. Definitely had a fine ass, but the tits probably sagged seeing as she had two kids.

Plus, she was married to the local cop, so best to keep hands off that one.

Her brat didn’t look happy with his assignment. Couldn’t blame him. Groceries, housekeeping—women’s work.

“I bet you’d rather be off with your friends than cleaning houses, huh?”

Brody shrugged. “That’s how it goes with a family business.” He put the quart of milk, the bottle of mango juice in the fridge, glanced at the paperback on the kitchen table.

His mood perked up some, because book.

“I know that one won the Pulitzer and all, but I liked Cannery Row better.”

“What?”

“That one’s a total bummer if you ask me. Mom likes East of Eden best, and it’s pretty good. But I still like Cannery Row.”

He just gave the boy a blank stare. “Good for you.”

Brody gave Bingley a long look. “My cousin got me into Virgil Flowers, and he’s way cool. I’m going to do Sandford’s whole series this summer.”

“I don’t watch much TV,” Bingley said as he took his laptop out to the front porch, and ended any sort of conversation.

Thinking it over, Brody put away the rest of the groceries he figured Bingley was too lazy to go buy himself at the market.

Knowing his job—and his mother—he loaded the breakfast dishes Bingley had been too lazy to put in the dishwasher. Then, following routine, he dumped the kitchen trash into the big plastic bag before he noticed Bingley hadn’t separated the recyclables into the second can.

With a strongly disapproving look aimed toward the front door, Brody did that job before carting the bag to the bedroom. His mother had already stripped the bed, loaded the sheets and bathroom towels into the laundry bag.

Brody started to speak, thought about open windows, and saved his comments.

He put the fresh sheets on the bed—something he’d rather do any day than clean somebody else’s bathroom.

Just gross, man.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to, but he eased the night table drawer open just a little. Condoms. Then the one on the other side of the bed. Nothing.

He did his job, emptying the other trash baskets, dusting off the furniture, putting the glass and plate beside the bed into the dishwasher.

He did both bedroom floors, though it didn’t look like the guy had stepped foot in the second bedroom, left the second bath for his mother to wipe down, and did the dusting, polishing in the living area.

In a rhythm, he went out to sweep the back patio, check the water in the pots while his mom dealt with the kitchen.

In under an hour, they hauled out the dirty linens, trash, recyclables. And Brody noted instead of writing anything, Bingley had Candy Crush going before he toggled quickly to his screen saver.

“All done. Enjoy your day.”

“You do the same,” Bingley told Emily. “It sure is a peaceful spot. Oh, I meant to say the grounds are really beautiful. You must have a bright green thumb.”

“I wish I did. You can credit Darby McCray and her crew from High Country Landscaping. We left you another marketing list, it’s on the board with your receipt from today. You just let us know if you need anything.”

“I’ll do that. If I get my quota in, I may try some kayaking this evening.”

“If you do, don’t forget your coupon for the rental. It’s in your welcome folder. Happy writing.”

Brody waited until they were in the truck, until his mother started the engine. “Writing, my butt.”

“Brody Michael Keller!”

“I’m serious, Mom. He was playing Candy Crush on his laptop.”

“Well, God, Brody, so he was taking a break, or distracting himself while we were cleaning.”

But Brody dug in. “If he’s a writer, how come he thinks Virgil Flowers is a TV series?”

“I … not everybody reads popular fiction, even writers.”

Brody just shook his head as Emily drove to the next bungalow on their list. “No way, Mom. Just no. He’s supposed to be an English teacher, right? Like in college. But when I said something about Cannery Row and East of Eden—he had The Grapes of Wrath on the table—he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Of course he did.”

“Uh-uh.” When Emily pulled up at the next bungalow, Brody swiveled in his seat, his face set, even mutinous. “He didn’t. And if he’s an English teacher and a writer, how come he’s only got one book in the whole cabin?”

“He probably uses a reader. He’s probably got a Kindle.”

“I didn’t see one. And he—he looked at your butt when you walked away to start the bedroom.”

“Oh my God! We’d better call your dad and have him arrested.”

“I didn’t like how he looked at it,” Brody mumbled, unamused. “I didn’t like him.”