Memory of Murder

Epilogue

San Diego, California

Thanksgiving Day

Holt Kincaid paused on the doorstep of the one-story, Spanish-style apartment. He turned to Brenna, who was holding their son, Jamie.

“You do know, she probably won’t have any idea who I am.”

“I know,” Brenna said. “But that’s okay. You know.”

She smiled at him and briefly leaned her head against his shoulder. Jamie reached out his fat baby hand and patted his face and whispered, “Dah.”

Holt took one more breath and knocked. Lindsey opened the door. Her face seemed flushed, and her eyes were brilliant. Behind her, he could see Alan, just hovering, one hand on her shoulder. Protecting her. Holt liked that.

“Hi-come in,” Lindsey said, sounding slightly out of breath.

Holt moved past her, into a small living room, and Brenna followed him. “Smells fantastic,” he said.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Lindsey said. “Turkey’s about done-there’s enough food for an army.”

“Wouldn’t be Thanksgiving,” Holt said. “Where…is she-”

And then Alan was there, and on his arm, as if he were escorting a princess, a tall, slender woman wearing an apron over her blouse and slacks. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn in an old-fashioned pageboy style. Her smile was brilliant but uncertain.

“Mom,” Lindsey said, taking her mother’s hand, “company’s here.”

Gamely, like a little girl remembering her manners, Karen McKinney smiled and held out her hand, first to Brenna. “Hello-do I know you? Who is this?” She touched Jamie’s cheek. “Such a pretty baby.” Her eyes moved on…found Holt’s face. She seemed to stagger. Her hands rose, shaking, to her face, and her eyes widened and filled with tears.

“James,” she whispered. And then, as the tears rolled down her cheeks: “Oh, James, where have you been? I thought you were dead. I’ve missed you so!”

Holt looked at Lindsey, who gave him a shrug and an apologetic smile. He wasn’t sure what to do. Thinking he ought to just go along with the fact that his mother had obviously mistaken him for her husband, he took his son from Brenna’s arms and said, “This is Jamie.”

To his surprise, Karen laughed. “Silly, it’s Jimmy, not Jamie! Think I don’t know my own sweet boy?” She held out her arms, and, still not sure what to do, Holt handed his son over to his grandmother. Jamie promptly wriggled, demanding to be put down.

“Tell her,” Lindsey said quietly. “Go ahead and tell her the truth. Tell her this child isn’t her Jimmy, but her grandson, and that you are Jimmy, all grown up. She may not understand completely…but then again, I think she just might.”

Holt hesitated. His mother, straightening up after setting her grandson down, gazed at him in bewilderment. He took her hands in both of his…feeling her hands for the first time in forty years, and yet…he felt as though he knew their touch. He lifted a hand and gently brushed away a tear from his mother’s cheek.

“Hello, Mama,” he said huskily, smiling through tears. “It’s me…Jimmy. I’ve missed you, too.”