In His Shadow, Part 7: The Stop

"Hey, you awake over there, kid?"

As he slid into the car, Sandy nudged Ryan who sat slumped in the passenger seat. His eyes were closed, his head cradled awkwardly against the window.

Ryan blinked and straightened, shivering as though caught by a sudden chill wind. "What?" he replied distantly. "Oh . . . yeah. Just thinking, Sandy."

"Ah, thinking. Got it. Well, here, some caffeine might help that process." Sandy handed Ryan a jumbo coffee and placed his own into the cup holder.

Sighing gratefully, Ryan clasped his hands around the Styrofoam. He drained half its contents in one swallow. "Thanks," he murmured. "And thanks for giving me a few minutes alone. I kind of needed it."

"No problem." Sandy fingered his car keys, apparently hesitant to start the engine. "So," he said, producing a muffin from a bag, "I got you a nosh to go. Want it? I already ate mine inside."

Ryan eyed the oversized pastry with mild distaste. "Nah. Not really hungry. You can have it if you want . . . Are you going to tell me where we're going now, Sandy?"

"Depends." Sandy studied Ryan as he returned the muffin to its bag and blew stray crumbs off his fingers. The car keys dangled, ignored, from the ignition switch. "Are you going to tell me how you're feeling now? 'Cause I gotta say, the Atwood side of the car has been suspiciously quiet since we left Chino."

"The Atwood side of the car is always quiet compared with the Cohen side," Ryan retorted. "Well, when the male Cohens are there anyway."

"Hey!" Glowering with mock threat, Sandy shook a warning finger. "Do not try those diversionary tactics with me, buddy. I'm a lawyer, remember? We invented that game--or at least appropriated it from evasive kids." The teasing note in his voice vanished, replaced by grave sympathy. "Besides, the operative term there was 'suspiciously quiet.' Ryan, I know how rough it was for you to see Trey. But come on. You can talk to me."

Ryan glanced sideways, smiling crookedly. "I know." He ducked his head and peered into his near-empty cup intently reading non-existent tea leafs. "But I'm not sure how I feel, Sandy. Or how to describe it anyway."

"Fair enough," Sandy conceded. "How about if I throw some words out there and you tell me if any of them fit? Let's see . . . Angry? Confused? Overwhelmed? Drained?"

Ryan swallowed the last of his coffee. His thumb rubbed bruising circles around the lip of the cup. "Mostly . . . drained, I guess?" he admitted tentatively. "And maybe a little . . . afraid? No, that's not it exactly."

"Troubled? Anxious? Apprehensive?"

"Apprehensive." Ryan tested the word and grimaced slightly. "Yeah. I mean I'm glad I saw Trey. And now that I have, I can't just . . . not go back. But I still don't know if I can trust him, Sandy." He lowered his voice, talking to himself. Sandy had to strain to hear. "I'm not sure I trust me with him either. There's just . . . so much between us, you know?"

His forehead creasing thoughtfully, Sandy nodded. "I do know," he affirmed. "I also know your reaction makes perfect sense. You and Trey? You're going to need a lot of time and support to work things out, Ryan."

"If we even can."

"If you even can," Sandy agreed. "But I give you credit for trying, kid. It takes guts—and loyalty—to put yourself on the line like that."

Ryan crushed his empty cup and stuffed it in the litterbag, leaving himself with nothing to hold. His hands flexed, grabbing air. "Sandy . . ." He hesitated. Then abruptly, he released a roiling torrent of words. "Am I betraying Marissa? Going to see Trey . . . what does that say to her, that I think what he did wasn't terrible, that I don't care about the pain he caused her. . .?"

"Of course not. Marissa will understand." Sandy predicted promptly. As soon as he heard his own words, though, he doubted them.

Since Trey regained consciousness, Sandy had watched Ryan and Marissa struggle to connect. They never quite managed it. Instead, they kept glancing off each other, pulled inexorably together and then instantly repelled as though the magnetic field around them kept shifting. Maybe, Sandy thought, it did. Obligation and desire, guilt and resentment, loyalty and suspicion, all those conflicting emotions bound in blood-colored memories . . . Sandy wondered if even Ryan and Marissa themselves understood what remained of their distorted relationship.

"You know what?" Sandy amended. "I take that back, kid. Marissa may not understand, at least not right away. But here's the thing. You can't live your life trying to protect her from the past. It's not possible, and it's not fair. Not to her, and definitely not to you."

"I'm not . . ." Ryan protested. Sandy's shrewd gaze pinioned him and he stopped, his cheeks stained a mottled red. "God, how do you do that?" he muttered. "I can't lie to you. This is what makes you such a good lawyer, right?"

Sandy grinned. "I like to think so."

"It's like you're a human lie detector or something." Ryan dropped his head back, blowing a defeated breath toward the ceiling. "I'm lucky you're on my side."

"Always, kid." Sandy reached over and kneaded Ryan's shoulder briefly. Then he chuckled. "Human lie detector, huh? You suppose Seth might turn me into a superhero for that Atomic County comic book that he's writing?"

"Graphic novel," Ryan corrected. "And yeah, Seth totally should. I'll talk to him about it."

Sandy frowned, considering. "On second thought, let's table that idea," he mused. "Knowing Seth, he'll give me one long, thick eyebrow. He used to do that when he was little and drew portraits of the family. There was Kirsten, with big blue eyes, gorgeous smile and golden hair, and there I was, looking like a demented ogre with a caterpillar crawling across my forehead."

"Yeah? How did Seth draw himself?"

"Hard to say," Sandy recalled. "Mostly, his face was hidden under a huge mop of curly hair."

"So, like a junior Jewfro, huh?" Ryan bit his lip and smiled wistfully. "I'd like to see one of those drawings. Did you keep any of them?"

"More like all of them. Kirsten even had a few of them framed, but Seth made her take them down when he got old enough to be embarrassed by what he called his 'kindergarten art.' I'll show them to you—as long as you promise you won't laugh at my unibrow."

"Absolutely." Ryan crossed his heart. "No laughing. I swear."

"Okay then." Very casually, as he started the car, Sandy asked, "So . . . you want to tell me about Fresno?"

On the verge of relaxing back against his seat, Ryan froze. "Fresno?" he echoed blankly.

"Trey reminded you about when you were kids in Fresno. It made a difference, Ryan, whatever happened there. You started to believe what he said after that."

"It was nothing," Ryan claimed. He shifted uneasily, fingers strangling the strap of his seatbelt.

"The human lie detector doesn't believe you. Look, kid, you don't have to explain. But you know how you said you don't quite trust Trey? Well, neither do I. I'd like to understand why you're willing to give him another chance."

"You already know why. He's my brother."

"Aw, Ryan," Sandy sighed. The words throbbed with compassion and regret. "It's more than that. I wish you trusted me enough to share what's going on in your head."

"I do," Ryan insisted. "I just . . . there are things I don't like to relive, that's all."

Sandy nodded. "I figured. But this is the way I see it. You're going to think about what Trey said anyway. At least if you talk to me, you won't face the memories alone."

Ryan looked bleakly at Sandy.

"Make sense, son?"

The gentle "son" seemed to breach an unseen barrier. Ryan swallowed hard. His eyes glazed over and he fixed them somewhere just beyond the horizon. "I was six," he began. He sounded detached, as if he were narrating a stranger's life story. "My folks had a bunch of friends over. They were playing cards, drinking. Shit, maybe doing drugs too, I don't know. And—Mom was flirting, I guess. At least my dad thought so. He kicked everyone out, and they got into a screaming match. He said . . . he said . . ." Ryan's voice thinned, trickled away.

"What, Ryan?" Sandy prompted quietly.

"He called Mom a fucking slut, said that probably I wasn't even his kid."

Sandy's breath hissed, but he didn't interrupt.

"I couldn't understand everything they were saying, but I remember hearing all this, this hate through our bedroom door. Trey was standing behind me. He had his arms around me. I remember . . . he was a lot taller than me, and the louder our parents yelled, the tighter he held me. Finally . . . the yelling just stopped. And they left."

"What?" Sandy demanded, startled.

Ryan shrugged. "We heard the door slam and our car pulling out. The driveway was gravel, so it made all this noise. And the car moved so fast, pebbles flew up and cracked our window . . . We caught hell for that later. Twice, actually, first for breaking the glass, then for saying it wasn't our fault."

Gripping the steering wheel, Sandy forced himself not to react. He waited. Eventually, Ryan continued.

"Mom was in the living room, crying and smashing stuff. I wanted to go to her, but Trey told me no, it was safer if we left her alone. After a while she got real quiet, so we just went to bed. Trey said she'd sleep it off probably. But in the morning . . . pretty much all our dishes were broken. And Mom was gone."

"I see." Sandy pronounced the words carefully. His mouth folded into a tight line before he spoke again. "When did your parents come back, Ryan?"

"Mom came back in eight days. We didn't see Dad for about a month."

"Oh." Eyes dark with comprehension, Sandy risked a glance at Ryan's profile. "So all that time, it was just you and Trey?"

Ryan seemed to shrink into himself. "Yeah," he whispered. "He wasn't even eleven, but he took care of me. He got me dressed, made sure I got to school so nobody would guess we were . . . alone. But then, on the fifth day . . . Trey was heating some soup. He went to take it off the stove and . . . I left some stupid toy on the floor. Some matchbox car or something. Trey tripped, and the soup spilled. He just . . . he screamed, Sandy. He was barefoot and I could see it was bad, but right away, he pretended like it was nothing."

With the word "nothing," Ryan stopped. Slowly, his hands clenched on his thighs, nails gouging the fabric of his pants, the flesh underneath. If it weren't for that movement, miniscule, torturous, Sandy would not have been sure that the boy was even breathing.

"What did you do, son?" he asked.

"Nothing." There was that word again. Ryan's voice wobbled, wan and very small. "I tried. I started to call 911, but Trey grabbed the phone. He said . . . if I did, he said Social Services would take us away. And maybe that wouldn't be so bad, but they'd split us up. Trey swore he'd never let that happen. And he didn't. He just put ice on his foot and kept going. But it hurt him so damn much. It hurt him so much, Sandy, and it was my fault. He still has the scar . . ."

You both do, Sandy thought, but all he allowed himself to say was, "Thank you for telling me, kid. I understand now why you won't give up on your brother."

Ryan lifted his eyes, scorched blue under his lashes. "I can't," he answered simply. He released a sibilant breath and dropped his gaze again.

Several minutes passed as they rode silently and Ryan's fists gradually unclenched. "You know what?" he observed at last. His tone lifted with surprise, and a phantom smile flitted across his face. "Telling you about it did help. Don't you ever get tired of being right, Sandy?"

Sandy grinned back, hoping to hold the connection. "I suppose I would if I were right all the time. But the truth is, Ryan, I'm not." As the car idled at a traffic light, he leaned over to confide, "Don't tell anyone, but sometimes I just get lucky."

"Lucky," Ryan repeated. "Yeah. Me too."

He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed wearily. Watching him, Sandy couldn't decide whether to bless or to curse the rescheduled hearing that had taken them to Chino. He could feel Ryan's exhausted relief that he and Trey both had survived their meeting—perhaps not unscathed, but at least intact. At the same time, though, Sandy sensed that the boy had reached his limit. He couldn't deal with any more memories, doubts, or obligations. Not today anyway.

If he were honest, Sandy thought wryly, he couldn't deal with them either.

"So I have an idea," he announced, signaling a turn. "I think we should reclaim our originally scheduled day and declare a moratorium on all Trey-related conversation for . . . oh, say, the next thirty-six hours. What do you think, kid?"

"Really?" Ryan asked. His eyes glinted eagerly, then narrowed with doubt. "No more probing questions?"

"Not a one," Sandy promised. "That is, unless you'd like to talk more."

Ryan crimped his lips and smothered a dry laugh. "Um . . . no. A moratorium sounds great." Straightening suddenly, he peered out the side window. "Hey, Sandy, where are we anyway?" he demanded. "You never did say where we were going."

Sandy smiled at the renewed animation in Ryan's voice. "Hmm . . . Didn't I?" he murmured innocently.

"No," Ryan replied, suspicion stretching out the single word. "But you're going to now, right?"

"Of course I will." On cue, the first notes of "Born to Be Wild" pounded through the car. Sandy raised an index finger. "Well, I will in a minute. Get that for me, okay, kid? You can put it on speaker."

"You're stalling," Ryan mouthed, but he switched on the phone. "Sanford Cohen, Esquire, mobile attorney-at-law. Ryan Atwood, answering service, speaking."

"Hey, dude!" Seth exclaimed. "So Dad put you to work, huh? Well, can't say I'm surprised. I'm warning you, Ryan, the man can be cunning. This is probably just another step in his nefarious master plan."

"Seth--"

"No, really, man. If you're not careful, before the day is over he'll work that famous Sandy Cohen mojo and sell you on a pre-law college major. You'll be lugging around two-ton books and starting conversations with 'In the matter of . . .' before you know it."

"Seth--"

"Caveat emptor, Ryan," Seth intoned, righteous and solemn. "I'm just saying."

Sandy cleared his throat portentously. "Just so you know, Seth, I can hear you."

There was a half-second of silence on Seth's end of the line before he exploded. "Where's the solidarity here, Ryan? Why didn't you signal me that the speaker was on?"

"Hey, I tried, man."

"Not very hard," Seth complained.

Sandy laughed. "A few words of advice, son: Cave quid dicis, quando, et cui."

"Cave quid di-what now?"

"Beware what you say, when, and to whom."

Over the phone, they could hear Seth harrumphing indignantly. "Well, that's just rude, Dad, throwing around foreign phrases that people can't be expected to know. Also, what's with using your answering service when you're obviously available to take a call? Just for that, I'm going to talk to Ryan. Dude, turn off the speaker."

"My phone," Sandy caroled, practically singing. "Speaker stays on."

An obvious sulk clipped Seth's reply. "Fine. Play the possession is nine-tenths of the law card. So . . . listen, bro, Mom's warming up her dialing finger, and I have a selection of video games all set for a challenge match before dinner. What's your ETA, RA? "

Ryan frowned, considering. "You know, that's a good question. Sandy? When will we be getting home?"

Sandy gave a noncommittal shrug. "Soon," he hedged.

"Soon," Seth repeated. "Right. Now would that be soon as in, we're about to pull into the driveway, or soon as in, I'm a lawyer, and I deal in billable hours, so pretty much any time between now and next Chrismukkah?"

"I mean soon," Sandy retorted. "Check a dictionary if you're not sure of the definition. Come to think of it, Seth, don't you have homework that should keep you occupied for a while?"

Seth groaned. "Yeah, only . . . okay, well, yeah. But see, I was aiming less for 'occupied,' which, by the way, totally sounds like a restroom that's being used, and more for 'amused and entertained.' Oh, and also fed, because I am starving here." For dramatic effect, he added a piteous whimper.

"Aw," Sandy crooned. "Poor kid. Tell you what, have a carrot."

"A carrot?" Seth sputtered incredulously. "That's supposed to sustain me? Homework and vegetables? Have you forgotten who I am? Ryan, remind Dad who I am."

Dutifully, Ryan faced Sandy. "He's Seth," he stated, straight-faced.

"So not what I meant, Ryan!"

"What? I did what you asked, Seth."

"All right boys," Sandy interjected. His eyes danced with satisfaction and he took a deep breath. Even the air in the car smelled different—clean and invigorating, as though a fresh breeze had borne away all the vapors trailing from ghosts and memories. "Seth, I know exactly who you are, which is why I am saying: have a carrot, do your homework, and tell your mother we'll give her a call when we're on our way home. We're hanging up now."

"But . . ."

"Now, son. See you soon."

Sandy nodded decisively and gestured to the "End" button. "Sorry, man," Ryan said, and switched off the phone along with Seth's defiant chant of "No justice, no peace."

Shaking his head, Sandy chuckled and reached over to turn on the CD player.

"Oh no," Ryan protested, blocking his hand. "Phone call's over. No more excuses. Where are we going, Sandy? You said you'd tell me."

"So I did," Sandy conceded. "Fair enough, kid. We're going, let's see now, oh, about a mile further north."

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Right. And what's a mile further north?"

"The place we're going."

"Yeah, I know. But what is it?"

"I didn't say I'd tell you what the place is. I said I'd tell you where we're going. And I did."

"Sandy! That's not fair. You're playing word games to avoid the question."

"Not at all." Sandy smiled smugly. "Asked and answered, counselor."

Folding his arms, Ryan shot Sandy a piercing sideways glare.

"Can't get me that way, buddy. I'm impervious," Sandy declared. "In fact, I should remind Seth that if he does turn The Human Lie Detector into a superhero, that's got to be another one of his powers. He can't be felled by Kid Chino's laser-sharp stares."

"They're supposed to be on the same side anyway," Ryan protested.

"Tell that to Kid Chino. He's the one shooting death rays out of his eyes."

Ryan glowered, slumping in his seat. "You know, Sandy," he muttered, "if I didn't know you were Seth's father, I'd still know you were Seth's father."

Sandy burst out laughing. "You sure you don't want to be a lawyer, Ryan? Because you're certainly picking up the circular speech patterns of the profession."

"I learned from the best. Come on, Sandy," Ryan urged. "Tell me. Where are we going?"

"Nowhere," Sandy answered, making a left-hand turn into a parking lot. "We're here." Grinning with anticipation, he stopped the car and sat back, watching for Ryan's reaction.

For a moment, Ryan just frowned quizzically at the nondescript building in front of them. Then he spotted the sign. "Okay," he said slowly. "I get it. I guess. Except . . . yeah, I really don't. What are we doing here, Sandy?"

"Just stopping by. Grab your briefcase, Ryan. Oh, and when we get to the office, wait outside, okay? I'll let you know when to come in."

Sandy strode across the parking lot, up the stairs and through the revolving doors so purposefully that Ryan almost had to jog to keep up. At the security desk, a guard waved them through the metal detector, examined their briefcases and shoved over a clipboard for them to sign in. It wasn't until Sandy handed it back that the man looked up to study their faces. Immediately, his face broke into a broad grin.

"Well, I'll be damned!" he exclaimed, coming around the table to clap Sandy on the back. "Sanford Cohen. Welcome back, man. It's been a while. And—hey, is this . . .?" The man gestured to Ryan and his smile widened.

"It is indeed," Sandy replied. "Fred, this is Ryan. Ryan, meet Fred Cochrane. Best security officer in southern California."

Ryan's polite "Nice to meet you" faded in surprise as his hand was swallowed up in Fred's two-fisted grip.

"Right back at you, Ryan," the guard declared heartily. "It's about time Sandy brought you here."

His eyes baffled, Ryan offered a crooked smile in response as Fred returned to his post.

"So . . . are they both in?" Sandy asked, nodding to the elevator.

"Oh yeah," Fred drawled. "Want me to call up, let them know that you're coming?"

"Nah. It's a surprise. Terrific to see you, Fred. Come on, Ryan."

Inside the elevator, Sandy fastened his gaze on the row of numbers, whistling and bobbing his head as each floor lit up in turn.

"Sandy, why did Fred recognize me?" Ryan's voice was tinged with suspicion. "And what did he mean . . ."

Before he could finish, the elevator door groaned open, and Sandy sprinted out and down the hallway.

"Ryan, remember," he whispered, "stay outside until you get my signal." Gesturing to a battered bench against the wall, he waited to make sure Ryan was seated before flinging the office door open, leaving it slightly ajar. "Spot inspection," he announced sternly. "Anybody working in this place? Pearl? Otis? I'm not interrupting your afternoon siestas, am I?"

"What the--? Sandy! Hey, man, great to see you. What brings you back to the trenches?"

Ryan could hear laughter, papers being shuffled, chairs scraping the floor, and then a woman's boisterous voice ordering, "Hold it right there! I don't see a bag in your hand, Sanford Cohen. Go, go, go away—you didn't bring bagels, we got no use for you here. Show the man out, Otis. He left us, he knows what he has to do to be allowed back in this office."

"Sorry, Sandy." The apology brimmed with amusement. "Pearl's right. You know the rules."

"Yeah, but just wait, both of you. I brought something better than bagels." With a flourish, Sandy strode to the doorway and gestured a bemused Ryan to his side.

In the instant after he entered the room, Ryan registered everything at once: the overcrowded space, the worn desks and chairs, their finish eroded by use, the bulging files covering almost every flat surface, the post-it notes and flyers dotting the walls. Facing him, looking as curious as he felt himself, were a tall, thin man wearing a rumpled jacket and a woman with untidy red hair anchored back from her face by neon purple glasses.

"Wait, is this--?" The woman yanked her glasses down, peered through them, and then pushed them back through a tangle of bangs. "Sanford Cohen, you don't mean to tell me that this is--?"

Sandy shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, cocking his head in Ryan's direction. "Yep, it is," he affirmed, grinning.

"I knew it! Ryan Atwood! You come right here, honeybunch! Gimme a smooch."

Before Ryan could move, the woman lunged across the room. She clapped her hands over both of his cheeks and dragged him toward her, planting a wet, hearty kiss on the bridge of his nose.

Stunned, Ryan swayed in place when she released him, blinking with bewilderment

"Holy shit, but he's handsome. The pictures you showed us do not do him justice." The woman nudged Sandy's side. "Bet you wish you could take credit for his good looks, huh?" Without pausing for an answer, she rounded back to Ryan. He took an involuntary half step backwards. At the sight of his wary expression, the woman slapped her own forehead with the heels of both hands. "Damn, Sandy! Look at the boy! What, you didn't tell him about me before you brought him here? Now he must think I'm some crazy lady who wants to jump his bones."

"She is some crazy lady, Ryan. But don't panic, she's harmless. Usually." The man at the other desk rolled his eyes at the woman and walked over, extending his hand. Ryan shook it reflexively. "I'm Otis Sempel. It's a pleasure to meet you. The tornado over there, blasting everything in her path, is Pearl Rosado."

Dazed, Ryan murmured an automatic greeting to both of them.

"Hughmanic-Rosado," Pearl corrected, scowling at Otis before turning to smile beatifically at Ryan. "But you can just call me Pearl, darlin'." She shoved a stack of files to the side of her desk and perched on top, patting the space next to her. "Come sit," she urged. "Might as well make yourself comfortable. You're in a room full of lawyers, sweetpea. We're bound to talk your ear off."

Ryan glanced at Sandy, whose lips quirked as he raised his palms and shrugged. Pearl beamed. She scooted over, making more room, and after a moment's hesitation Ryan eased down beside her.

"Well, Pearl will talk your ear off anyway," Otis amended. His voice was a warm baritone, dark as his skin. "She and Sandy and I go way back, Ryan. Believe it or not, he shared this cubbyhole with us when he was a PD."

"Yeah?" Ryan sat up straighter. "This was your office, Sandy?" Unconsciously, he stroked the surface of the shabby desktop beside his thigh.

"It was indeed." The corners of Sandy's eyes crinkled nostalgically as he looked around. "Of course, it was always more Grand Central Station than an office—rush in, grab some files, check messages, head out for another meeting."

"Ha! Listen to the man, trying to make it sound like all business, all the time." Pearl blew Sandy a kiss and sidled closer to Ryan. "Truth is, we shared a big chunk of our lives in this office. So, sugarbear," she confided, "that means we know all about you, even if Sandy didn't tell you about us."

Ryan's face clouded. "You . . . know me?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh shit, yeah. The whole department does," Pearl answered. She held up one hand, ticking items off on her fingers. "Ryan is really bringing Seth out of his shell. Ryan aced his entrance exam for Harbor. Ryan cooked this terrific dinner. Ryan's first-string on the soccer team. Ryan's taking AP courses. Ryan made honor roll."

Simultaneously rapt and self-conscious, Ryan listened to the litany. There were so many other things Sandy could have reported: Ryan picked a fight with Luke. Ryan got suspended from the soccer team. Ryan broke into school files. Ryan assaulted Oliver. Ryan impregnated an ex-girlfriend. Shifting uncomfortably, he started to object, when he saw Sandy nod, looking fond and proud. Ryan's breath caught, and he ducked his head, flushing.

"Pearl, you're embarrassing the boy," Otis interjected. "Don't mind her, Ryan. She overwhelms everybody. Thinks it's charming."

Pearl flounced in place and patted her hair. "Hell, Otis, first of all, it never hurts a kid to know his father is proud of him."

"Well, that's true," Otis agreed.

Ryan cast a quick, sideways glance at Sandy, who answered with a private smile.

"Second, you know I'm charming as hell. And a damn fine lawyer too."

"As you can tell, kid, Pearl's very modest," Sandy chuckled. "But to be fair, she is a damn fine lawyer. I'd say she sets the bar high, but she'd probably consider that a bad pun."

Pearl snorted. "Damn straight."

Casually, Sandy surveyed the office. "So," he asked, "things been busy around here?"

Otis sighed, indicating the towering stacks of files. "What you see, man. It never ends. Sometimes I think those folders reproduce overnight."

"Par for the course then, right?"

"Pretty much."

"Okay, whaddya want, Sandy?" Pearl demanded abruptly. She leaned toward Ryan, adding in a loud aside, "He stops by whenever he's having trouble with a case. See, Otis and I did all the heavy lifting here—poor guy just can't make it without our help."

Sandy laughed. "As a matter of fact, Pearl, you're right. I do want something."

"Ha! Knew it!"

"I've had some time on my hands lately, and thought you might have a couple cases you could throw my way. Pro bono, of course." Ryan's eyes widened incredulously at the phrase "time on my hands," but Sandy ignored his expression. "Of course," he teased, "I know you guys thrive on overwork, so you probably won't want to part with anything . . ."

Otis swept up a stack of files from his desk and deposited them in Sandy's arms. "Take your pick," he urged. "Or, hey, take them all if you want. Pearl and I are willing to sacrifice for a good cause."

"You're so generous," Sandy noted wryly. "But I think two cases will be enough for now." He hefted the first few files individually, and then put the two thickest folders into his briefcase.

Ryan watched, registering Pearl's obvious appreciation, Otis's gratitude. A surge of admiration rushed through him, along with an irresistible urge to match Sandy's generosity.

"What about me?" he blurted. Three sets of eyes turned to him and Ryan blushed. "I mean . . . I'd like to help. Maybe there's something that I can do?"

"That's not necessary, kid," Sandy protested. "Hey, I was kidding about extra credit work. I just brought you here so you could meet Otis and Pearl, see where . . . well, where we all started."

Ryan nodded slowly, recognizing the significance of that word: 'we.' "No, I know, but I want to," he persisted. "I'm not sure what I can do, but if you can think of anything . . ."

Otis and Pearl looked at each other for a moment. "Shaun Keating?" Otis asked.

Pearl nodded vigorously. "Shaun Keating," she echoed. "Sweetcheeks, how would you like to be . . . oh, a kind of big brother? There's this kid, thirteen, already in trouble, headed for more, doesn't trust any adults . . ."

"We'll have to contact his P.O. and his mother, see what they think, but you might be exact man for the job," Otis added. "Let us get back to you, all right?"

"Give them one of your cards, Ryan," Sandy prompted.

"Come on, Sandy," Ryan muttered. "They can call me at the house. Those cards are a joke."

Sandy raised his eyebrows and waited. Under his insistent gaze, Ryan sighed in defeat. He retrieved a business card from his briefcase and handed to Otis with a sheepish half-shrug.

Pearl immediately hopped down from the desk to read over Otis's shoulder. They studied the card together, exchanged knowing glances, and grinned. "Seth," they declared simultaneously.

"Got it in one," Sandy laughed. "See, Ryan? I told them all about Seth too. And speaking of The Ironist, he's probably driving Kirsten crazy right about now. What do you say, kid? Ready to hit the road?"

Ryan took a deep, satisfied breath. He stood up, stretching his shoulders. Somehow, he realized, Sandy had known that he needed this stop. In this dingy office, replete with Pearl's effusion, Otis's dignity, all the evidence of their work and their respect for Sandy, the day had sorted itself out. All the disparate pieces fell into their proper place: Scott . . . Beth . . . Glenn Humphrey . . . Mrs. Crespo . . . even Trey.

Ryan could start to make sense of them now.

Sandy cupped the back of his neck, and Ryan smiled gratefully. He felt tired, and comforted, and valued, and secure.

"Yeah, Sandy," he sighed. "Let's go home now."

TBC