Detective Stanley Devonshire sat in the kitchen of the colonial house he and his wife Victoria had built during the early years of their marriage. Stan and his teenage son Jonah were finishing lunch on this idle Saturday when the call came in that there was a multiple homicide on Plymouth Avenue.
“Devonshire,” he answered.
Jonah watched as his father responded rather matter-of-factly with “uh huh” several times. Then suddenly his father’s eyes went wide. Whatever the news was, it must be bad.
So often Jonah had wished that his father could be like other dads—go to the office, ride the train home, eat dinner and toss around the ball—those little things all the other fathers and sons did. But ever since Jonah’s mother had died, he’d found it more difficult to see his father go on fighting crime. Their small town was far from the crime capital of the world, but there were still times Jonah really worried about his father’s safety. He remembered his mother’s last words as she lay in the hospital after being hit by the car. Jonah had promised her that he would look after his father, something that the then seven-year-old boy had found more difficult than he’d imagined. Even now, ten years after his mother’s death, Jonah still had difficulty watching his father walk out the door every day. Each time, he couldn’t help but wonder if it might be the last time he would see his father.
Stan hung up and looked over at his son. “It’s a murder. I have to go. Keen and Roberts are already over there.”
“Okay,” Jonah said, maintaining his reserve. “But Dad?”
“Yeah?” Stan answered, snatching his mobile off the table and preparing to leave.
“Be careful.”
Stan lowered his chin and shot a glance at his son as if to say “yeah right.”
“I’m serious, Dad.”
“The vic is already dead—what could possibly happen to me?”
“Dad?”
“Okay, okay. I will.” Jonah stared back at his father with his mother’s deep gray eyes—eyes so much like his mother’s that Stan could almost feel Victoria looking at him. “I promise, son—I’ll be careful.”
Stan reached over and smiling affectionately, tossed his son’s brown hair. Then he walked out the door.
The Shattered Lens Page 5