Given the Eggleston case, that might be a hard promise to keep. "I can promise to try."

Nicky looked away. "Okay. I'll go tell Aunt Helen."

Wishing he could make an honest-to-goodness promise that he could keep, Steven watched his youngest drag his feet on the way to the kitchen. Wishing he weren't so bone-tired, he climbed the stairs and knocked on his oldest son's bedroom door. "Brad?"

"What?"

Steven closed his eyes at the belligerent reply. "I need to talk to you, son."

"I don't want to talk to you."

Steven's temper simmered and with an effort he slapped a lid on it. "Tough. You're going to." He pushed open the door and entered, closing the door and leaning back against it. His eyes took a ride around the room, looking for anything that was out of place, not sure what he'd do if he found it. But everything looked normal, with the exception of the unmade bed and his unkempt son sitting against his pillows, his dirty high-tops perched unapologetically on the rumpled blanket. Brad's dark hair was dirty and uncombed, his face heavy with dark stubble, his bloodshot eyes narrowed suspiciously. Clean and kempt, Brad was the spitting image of his mother. At this moment his son looked like an extra from a biker flick.

Steven pulled the chair from Brad's desk and straddled it, resting his chin on the chair's back. Brad's stare had gone from suspicious to hostile. "We need to talk, Brad."

Brad shrugged sarcastically. "Can I stop you?"

"No." He met his son's turbulent gaze and held it until Brad looked away. "What's going on here, Brad?" he asked quietly.

Another shrug. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

Steven swallowed, let his eyes roam the room, taking in the familiar posters from Brad's favorite horror movies. Steven wasn't certain why his son wanted to stare up at Anthony Hopkins sporting a wire muzzle when he woke in the middle of the night, but Brad apparently did. Should he comment on the football that lay idle in the corner, suggest they throw a few? He drew a breath and let it out. No, he'd tried all those things already, in one form or another. He had to confront this head-on and pray for wisdom. And courage. The picture of Jenna Marshall's face filled his mind and this time he held on to it as long as he could. Courage, Steven.

"Dr. Marshall called me today."

Brad's head whipped around, a look of unholy rage lighting his eyes. "She had no right?"

"She had every right. She cares about you. Brad." Suddenly weary beyond measure, Steven closed his eyes. "So do I."

"Yeah, right," came the muttered response.

Steven opened his eyes abruptly to find his son's arms folded tightly across his broadening chest, his face staring straight ahead, his eyes locked on nothing at all. Steven bit the inside of his jaw, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Brad huffed a mirthless chuckle. "It means… yeah… right."

"What's happened to you, son? One month ago you were bright, happy, clean. Now you're failing chemistry, for God's sake! How many other classes are you failing where the teachers haven't called me? Where they don't care enough to stay an hour late on a Friday afternoon to tell me how low my son has dropped?"

Brad said nothing and Steven felt his frustration building.

"Just tell me the truth, Brad. Are you doing drugs?"

Brad stiffened, then deliberately turned only his head to stare coldly. "No."

"And I can believe you?"

One corner of Brad's mouth turned up in a surly parody of a smile. "Obviously not."

Steven jumped to his feet, staring at Brad, incredulity robbing him of any intelligent response. He turned his back and stared at the wall, unable to stand the virulent anger, the dark hatred in his son's eyes. It was as if Brad blamed him. "Why, Brad?" he whispered.

"Why, which?" Brad answered with a sarcastic question of his own.

"Why are you doing this to me, to your brothers? To yourself?" Steven folded his arms across his chest, putting pressure against his heart that felt physically sore. His throat ached, but he managed to contain the emotion, swallowing back the lump he feared would choke him. His son. The fear clawed at his gut. Betrayal ripped so deep it left him numb. "Why?" He could barely hear his own whisper.

Brad simply looked at him, his eyes gone cold. "Because."

Because? Because? What the hell kind of answer was that? Steven waited, his heart pounding in his throat. And then he stepped backward toward the door, because it seemed that was the only answer he was going to get. When his back hit the door he cleared his throat.

"I have to go out again. I have a missing girl in Pineville." Was that a flicker in his son's eyes? Some evidence of compassion? "I don't know when I'll be home. Aunt Helen has a canasta game tomorrow night. I need you to be here with your brothers in case I'm not here. Brad?"

Brad jerked a nod, then leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes. Steven stood for a moment, watching his oldest son effectively ignore him. Dismissed, he opened Brad's bedroom door, waited until he closed the door on the other side, then let his body sag against the wall.

"What should I do?" he whispered hoarsely, his eyes clenched shut. "Please, God, tell me."

But the voice quietly murmuring in his mind was Jenna Marshall's. Have courage, Steven. If only it were that simple.

Friday, September 30, 7:30 P.M.

Jenna unsnapped the leash from Jim's collar and straightened her back with a sigh. Her ankle throbbed, but at least both dogs were walked for the evening. There was no way she'd have asked Steven Thatcher to do it for her, although he probably would have welcomed the chance to put off going home another fifteen or twenty minutes. She wondered if he'd talked to Brad.

Wondered if there was anything more she could do.

She put the thought out of her mind. Casey was right. There was truly nothing more she could do other than let the parents know. She needed to tell them, then walk away, even if they had broad shoulders, beautiful eyes, muscular biceps, and smelled really good.

Jenna chuckled at herself. "Hormones," she murmured. Jj was a good thing she didn't need to see Steven Thatcher again, she thought. She needed a bit of time to bring all those newly awakened hormones under tight control. "Wouldn't want to do anything stupid," she said to Jean-Luc who sat looking up hopefully.

But Jenna Marshall rarely did anything stupid. "I rarely do anything at all," she said to Jean-Luc, who licked her hand. And tonight would be no exception. Tonight she'd snuggle into the corner of her sofa, alone. And watch old movies, alone. And, if she was lucky, she'd have some leftovers in the fridge she could warm up and eat. Alone.

It was rare for her to indulge in self-pity. So stop it, she told herself. But once rolling, the pity train was hard to brake. Her thoughts ran to Adam, about the days she hadn't been alone. "Great," she muttered aloud. "Now I feel even worse." She eyed Jim and Jean-Luc balefully. "At least you two can't tell me I've grieved long enough and to get on with my life."

A knock at the door sent both dogs into a snarling crouch.

"Setde," Jenna commanded and limped over to the door to peek through the peephole. And sighed. Adam's father stood there, tapping one foot. She opened the door. "Hi, Dad." Having lost her own parents years before, she'd been instantly adopted by Adam's family. She nodded to the pair of eyes peeking from the darkened apartment across the hall. "Hello, Mrs. Kasselbaum."

Mrs. Kasselbaum appeared, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her housedress perfectly starched-as usual. She patted her hair, then lightly stroked the ever-present pearls around her neck. Jenna often thought this was how Beaver Cleaver's mother would look, forty years later. "Hello, Jenna. Your young man didn't stay very long."