almost wanted him to; that way she could be mad in quiet.
“Not just yet,” he said. “I’m not ready to retire yet.”
“Can she find us?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No way. We’re ghosts.”
But he didn’t sound entirely sure. And it would turn out that he was wrong.
TWENTY-THREE
Hunter
Hunter Ross entered the diner, the little bell jingling to announce his arrival. Not that anyone would hear it over the din. The waitress at the counter waved to him, then nodded with a knowing smile over toward the rowdy group of older men in the back. Hunter issued a sigh and made his way toward them.
Retirement didn’t appeal to Hunter Ross. In fact, he had actively started to dread his Tuesday morning breakfast group, a bunch of old guys out to pasture from various gritty professions. On any given Tuesday, there might be a cop, a lawyer, a firefighter, an EMT, and an FBI agent. Men who had strongly identified with their work, and who now used all that pent-up energy to complain about the state of the nation and the world.
They were out of shape. They watched too much television. And, frankly, the way they ate—giant chili cheese omelets and piles of hash browns, sides of bacon, thick sausage links, pints of juice, gallons of coffee—made Hunter nervous.
Some Tuesday soon, one of these old guys was just going to stroke out right in front of him. Not if. When.
They called him “son.” Because Hunter was in his late fifties, and they were all pushing seventy. He wasn’t technically retired, because since leaving the job, he’d hung out a shingle and investigated cold cases for families, understaffed police departments, whoever had a case that had run short of leads, time, money, energy. Sometimes he did it for free.
The group chided him for working when he could just be taking it easy. But they were jealous, too, he could tell. When you did the kind of jobs these guys did, it was never easy to just let it go. There was always a fire, a crime, a victim, the need for a first responder. Other, younger people were running to the rescue now.
Hunter had three cases going right now—a missing teenager who was probably a runaway, a couple—doomsday preppers, who had gone off the grid and not been heard from since—and something that was personal, a case he hadn’t been able to solve that was nearing its ten-year anniversary. Because of that milestone, the old case had been on his mind lately, making him cranky. Maybe if he got some closure on that, he could think about that European riverboat trip his wife was pushing for.
He took his seat at the table.
“You’re late, son,” said Phil, retired beat cop, tall and skinny-fat—a naturally lean guy who never met a vegetable he could stand, who would only run if chased, who hydrated primarily with bourbon. His belly hung over his belt, tenuously kept in place by his golf shirt. “We ordered for you.”
“Great,” Hunter said, settling in next to Andrew. “Because my cholesterol isn’t high enough.”
“He’s busy, can’t always get here, you know,” said Ray the firefighter, expansive with sarcasm. He had a heart attack last year but bounced back; now he had egg whites—smothered in cheese, with a side of bacon. “This one still thinks he’s going to save the world. One cold case at a time.”
“What are you working on, champ?” asked Andrew, the retired lawyer who now did pro bono work for at-risk kids in the system. He was another one who couldn’t let go.
“I got a lead on my runaway,” he said. “I’m on my way to check it out. Just gonna grab a coffee and go.”
“She ran away. Why not just let her go?” Jay, the other cop. Bitter as hell. Divorced. Estranged from his kids. The job had chewed him and spit him out.
Hunter shrugged. “Family’s still looking.”
Jennie had been missing more than a year. She was sixteen years old but looked much older. There was abuse from her biological father, though her mother and stepfather were good people, trying to help her. Jennie fell in with a group that was taking oxy. Her mother quickly lost control of the situation. And then she was gone.
Jay rubbed at his full salt-and-pepper beard. “They did a better job, maybe she’d still be at home.”
The other guys made affirming noises, like they were all parents of the year.
“Maybe,” said Hunter.
That was his way, easy deflection, allow other people’s negativity to roll over