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“Understandable,” Britta said and, still holding his hand, she led him to the living room sofa. “Took me years to get used to it when we moved here from Minnesota. Have a seat, Kaj, dear, and tell me about yourself.”
He sat, but Val remained standing, discreetly wandering over to the mantel. “Well,” he said, “I’m from New York, like I said. Born and raised. I moved here about six months ago.”
Britta folded her hands primly in her lap. “And what do you do?”
“I’m a prosecutor for Orleans Parish.”
“Oh.” Her blue eyes grew round and she pressed her fingertips to her lips. “Oh my. You were on the news this week. You and your son. He was nearly abducted, wasn’t he?”
Kaj glanced at Val, somehow surprised that her mother would have known who he was. He shouldn’t have been, he supposed. Val might have described her mother as fragile, but Kaj wasn’t seeing her that way. “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct. My son’s name is Elijah.”
She nodded gravely. “And he’s all right?”
“He is.”
“Thank the Lord.” Britta looked over her shoulder. “Ingrid, stop puttering around and sit with us.” She shook her head. “That girl has never been able to sit down.” Then she seemed to realize what Val was staring at and her demeanor changed, like a switch had been flipped.
Now Kaj saw what Val had described. Britta’s shoulders drooped as her expression fell and Kaj could feel the melancholy roll off her in waves. “I’m sure Ingrid told you about her brother, Ivan.”
“A little.”
“Bring the picture over here, Ingrid.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Val handed the framed photo to her mother. “But Kaj doesn’t want to hear about Van.”
“Of course he does,” Britta said with a lift of her chin. “He’s a parent. He understands. Don’t you, Kaj?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kaj said gently. The fear that grabbed him whenever he thought about someone hurting Elijah or even Elijah’s diabetes hurting him was all-consuming. To have lost a child was something he couldn’t begin to fathom. He leaned in to look at the photo—Ivan Kristiansen laughing with a dark-haired woman who was most definitely Sandra Springfield. Kaj had seen pictures of Ivan before, of course. The photo that had once been on his company’s website in which he’d appeared sober. Severe, even. The other had been of his body at the scene of his murder in the case files Kaj had read. “He looks happy in this photo.”
Britta stroked the frame, her smile tender. And fragile. Yes, Kaj now understood exactly what Val had meant. “He was. This was his girlfriend. Her name is Cassandra, but she goes by either Cassie or Sandra. I think it depends on her mood. And if she’s missing my son.”
Kaj had to fight not to show his surprise. “It sounds like you had a good relationship with her.” He was fishing, but he sensed that there was more here than Val had known.
“Oh, I do. She still visits.”
Val was stunned. Her mouth was open, but no words were coming out. So Kaj rushed in to fill the silence, hoping to keep Britta’s focus on himself.
“That’s very nice of her. How often do you see her?”
“Oh, every month she comes by with flowers. Just like clockwork.” Britta leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. “She buys them at my daughter Sylvi’s flower shop, God bless her. Sylvi works hard, but she still has a difficult time making ends meet. Cassandra tries to help out however she can. Sylvi always changes the subject whenever I mention Cassandra, but I know she’s grateful. She has to be.”
Kaj dared another glance at Val. Her lips were now pursed, her cheeks stained with dark flags of angry red.
Britta must not have seen the news last week, however, because she didn’t appear to realize that Cassandra—aka Sandra Springfield—had been arrested on charges of drug possession and conspiracy to commit murder.
“That’s good of her,” Kaj said with a smile that he hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt.
Val didn’t smile. “How often does Sylvi drop by, Mom?”
Britta turned to her daughter, her irritation as plain as Val’s. “Every week, which is more often than you visit, if you must know.” Kaj winced inwardly as Val winced outwardly. “Sylvi’s changed, Ingrid. She’s clean and sober. Has been for four years.”
Val’s nod was tight. “I’m sure she is.”
Translated: There’s no way in hell that she’s clean. Not if she’s seeing Sandra Springfield.
Britta closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose, her pose the age-old parental What am I going to do with you. “One of these days you’ll wish you’d been kinder, but it will be too late.”
Val’s eyes snapped with anger. “How much money does she ask for, Mom? Whenever she ‘drops by’?”
