Griffin came into view from the direction of the bedroom and glanced at her as he moved toward the deck. In jeans and his favorite Hawaiian shirt, he carried a pair of well-worn hiking boots and had the pinched look of someone suffering from a headache. "Jane."
"Griffin." She followed him outside.
"I guess we can safely say we remember each other's names." He flicked a glance at her again as he held the boots upside down and tapped the toes together. "I don't know if you were as drunk as me - "
"I wasn't."
"Well, that's good. Because I'm a bit hazy on the particulars past, oh, the third beer or so."
Liar. She stared at him as he bumped the shoes together again. He was pretending to not remember, so they wouldn't have to honestly address what had occurred the night before. Could he really keep this up? Crossing her arms over her chest, she watched him set the pair of shoes on the picnic table and inspect them like a doctor might a patient, up to and including looking under their tongues.
"Habit," he said, as if she'd asked him what he was doing. "In Afghanistan, the tarantulas would climb into our boots. I wouldn't want to bring any stowaways with me on the trip."
Her gaze snapped to his face. "Are you saying - "
"I feel sure I have some apologies to make, Jane." He was still focusing on the shoes, making a big show of working on the laces, slipping them free of the grommets then reworking them through the small holes. "I saw the chaos in the office."
"About that - "
"I talked to Ted. He said you came onto the beach and collected me last night."
Did he really not recall it? "You told me about Jackal - Jackson."
Griffin winced. "Sorry to put that in your head."
But it was in his head, and letting it fester there was poisonous. "What happened to him after the explosion?"
"He made it. Has a prosthesis, and gets around quite well, considering."
"Have you talked with him, then?"
Griffin was working over the second boot. "A couple of times."
It made Jane think of the soldier who'd traveled from Philly to see him. "What about your friend who visited here - the one who had the car accident?"
"Hernandez. He's okay too, finally getting some counseling at the VA."
They had services like that for soldiers who'd been in war. Places and people who were trained in helping them manage the aftermath of their injuries and of what they'd seen and done. The guilt that they'd survived when their buddies had not.
But who was helping Griffin? Who was there for the observers who were witnesses to fear and horror and heroism?
"You should talk to someone too," she said.
He stiffened.
"You're smart. You've got to realize you're exhibiting some of the classic symptoms of - "
"I'm handling everything just fine. Christ, Jane, I was a reporter - lucky me got to come home while the soldiers are still serving their country. Even when I was with them, I carried a pen, not a gun."
"I think if you end up covered in blood and holding someone's blown-off limb, the distinction is pretty moot." She realized she was sounding slightly tense herself when Private whined and came over to lick her hand.
"That's a funny word, isn't it? Moot."
"In this case it means without or with little practical value - " She broke off, realizing she'd fallen into the trap he'd set. Always trying to distract her. "Griffin," she ground out.
"Jane." He flicked her a glance. "Look at that, we're still good with the names."
Frustrated, she looked toward the horizon, seeing the line where the steely-gray of the ocean met the turquoise-blue of the sky. The wind ruffled her hair, sending a swath of it across her face. Before she could brush it away, Griffin was beside her, his touch light as he caught the strands and tucked them behind her ear. It was a tender gesture, and she read something in it. Apology. Regret. Farewell.
"You changed your mind," she said. "You're going to Gage."
He nodded.
"Is this your competitive streak coming out?" she asked, the words knife-edged. It felt as if he was cracking open her ribs and reaching in to squeeze her heart with his bare hand. He'd survived bullets and bombings before, but would he again? How many times could one man tempt fate? "Is it that you can't stand letting your brother be somewhere dangerous when you're not?"