Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,78
my way home, I’ll get by there.”
“Let me know when. I’ll try to meet you. I love you, Eve.”
“Well, yeah. I love you, too, and all that.”
He smiled, sighed. “I needed to say it. I find I’m standing at some sort of bisection of my life here. With Cobbe and the old man and the hard memories of Dublin on one side, and all these children, this place, the potential of it all on the other. And you, my darling Eve, right here with me. So I love you.”
God yes, he needed a break.
“I am with you. Go back to the happy.”
When she clicked off, she sat back a minute, and hoped to Christ she wasn’t making a mistake with Abernathy.
Then she got up, opened her door. She got another hit of coffee before sitting down.
And continuing the hunt.
15
Roarke spent another moment behind the closed (and quiet) door of a storage closet. The only convenient place, at the moment, he’d been sure to find unoccupied.
Though he’d wanted—and intended to—spend another solid hour on refining the potential safe houses, time had drained away with this essential day at An Didean.
So he’d leave it to the cops, at least until he could find more time. And sent what he had to Eve.
When he stepped out, the time-crunch annoyance simply fell away. He could watch students exploring classrooms under the eye of staff, asking questions, talking over each other.
They’d brought in the upperclassmen first, so teenagers swarmed the building. Most had come in solo—from shelters, other schools, troubled homes, foster homes, through Child Services. But he could see some had formed little groups already.
A trio of giggling girls, a pair of boys slouching by ignoring the giggling girls.
He imagined most were here because they’d been given little to no choice. And he hoped—had to hope—that most would find something here that sparked their interest, imaginations, talents, that gave them a sense of self and purpose.
Time would tell.
He heard music from the music room, and wandered that way, expecting to find one of the music instructors entertaining kids.
Instead he found a boy of about fourteen playing as if he’d been born holding a guitar.
He stood spread-legged, black-streaked blond hair flopping into his eyes. And his fingers blurry miracles as he finessed a complex riff.
The smile dropped away, and the fingers stilled when the boy spotted Roarke.
“I wasn’t hurting it.”
“On the contrary,” Roarke said, and continued into the room. “You illuminated it. Played brilliantly,” he amended when he saw confusion. “Where did you learn to play?”
The boy shrugged, and tossed back his mop of streaked hair. “Just picked it up. You can make some decent money playing in the subway if you get the right station. And I was doing fine before they scooped me up.”
“I imagine so.” When the boy put the guitar back on the stand, Roarke shifted—subtly—to block his exit. “What do you think of Avenue A?”
This got a sniff, another shrug. But interest showed in his eyes. “They can scream it, even for old guys.”
“Jake Kincade will be guest instructing here from time to time.”
“Yeah, right. Like a rock star gives a shit about any of this, any of us.”
“It happens he does. He’ll instruct occasionally for the music department, and speak to those interested about songwriting, composing. His bandmates will give time as well.”
“That’s chilly, I guess.”
“What do you think of Mavis Freestone?”
The kid had green eyes, sharp as a shard of glass. “She can rock it, for a girl.”
“You’ll be seeing some of her as well, as no doubt you’ll sign up for the music courses.”
The corner of the boy’s lip curled. “I don’t need no frigging courses.”
“Perhaps they need you. Is your own guitar in your room?”
“I don’t have one anymore.” And here Roarke heard grief under the defiance. “Asshole busted it up in the shithole foster home they dumped me in before they dumped me here.”
“I see. Well then, you’re not in a shithole foster home now, though I imagine you’ll run into a few assholes here as well. The world’s full of them.”
That got a reluctant snicker.
“Roarke,” Roarke said, holding out a hand.
Clearly the boy didn’t want to take it, but did. “Gee. Just Gee.”
“Well, just Gee.” Roarke lifted the guitar off the stand, held it out. “Have this one then. It’s yours if you sign up for the music program. It’s a fair trade,” Roarke added when Gee hesitated.