Alarm segued into panic, and the boy began pushing through the crowd, his eye fixed on the doors that led outside. He was quick, and small enough to squeeze between people where Ethan had to bull his way, so he reached the exit first.
So much for the fiction of a father elsewhere in the exhibition hall.
Ethan stepped out and momentarily failed to see him. More people were streaming in, either from the parking lot or the covered walkway that led—
Oh, yeah, there he was, and running now.
Ethan broke into a run, too, unsure why he was so determined to get his hands on this kid, but set on it anyway. The boy couldn’t possibly be old enough to drive, which meant a bus or the light-rail.
Sure enough, he was headed for the light-rail station. Ethan didn’t see a train, but knew they ran often between the expo center and downtown, something like every fifteen minutes.
Eight or ten people waited beneath a shelter. No restroom to disappear into. The boy tucked himself behind a family group as if he thought Ethan would assume he belonged.
When he saw Ethan’s jog settle to a purposeful stride, he took a few steps back, his head turning in panic, but, with the rails behind him, there was nowhere to go.
“Excuse me,” Ethan murmured as he sliced through the cluster of people.
“I don’t know this man!” the boy cried. “He’s been following me.” He shuffled his feet, edging behind a beefy guy whose gaze first dropped to the holstered gun on Ethan’s belt, then rose to meet his eyes in challenge.
Ethan dipped a hand in his pocket and held up his badge. “The boy knows why I want to talk to him.”
The kid’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”
They all heard the train coming. Ethan latched a hand around the boy’s skinny upper arm.
“I didn’t say you did. But we need to talk.”
“Can’t I just go home?” he begged. “All I wanted was to look.”
“I’ll be glad to take you home,” Ethan agreed.
The white bullet-like light-rail train glided to a stop and disgorged a whole lot of people. Everyone waiting climbed aboard. Ethan turned his young captive back the way they’d come.
He deliberately dawdled so they fell behind the eager beavers headed for the expo center. He had the time now to assess the boy, who was good-looking and dressed in blue jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt and expensive, gleaming white athletic shoes. Common for his age, his feet looked too big to go with the rest of him. This was no homeless kid—somebody bought him nice clothes, kept them clean, trimmed his hair regularly. At first sight, Ethan would have guessed Hispanic, but wasn’t so sure now despite the near-black hair and brown eyes.
“Why didn’t you want to tell me your name?” he asked.
The boy shot him a defiant look. “Why should I?”
“Because I’m a police officer, and I asked. Because I suspect you cut school to come to the gun show.”
Ethan felt like a jerk when the kid’s lower lip trembled.
“Mom is going to be so mad.”
“What about Dad?”
This sidelong look glittered with tears. “Dad’s dead.”
Truth at last. “How old are you?” Ethan asked, more gently.
The answer was a mumble. Ethan raised his eyebrows.
“Eleven.”
He blinked as he calculated. “That means you’re not even in middle school.”
The boy shook his head. “I’m in sixth grade. I left after lunch.”
“It ever occur to you that the school probably let your mother know you’d disappeared?”
His mouth fell open in horror. “I thought since I was there in the morning when they did roll call...”
Ethan nudged him toward the parking lot. “I can pretty well guarantee somebody noticed you weren’t there come afternoon.”
“Oh, man.” He raised desperate eyes to Ethan’s. “Please don’t tell her where I was! She hates guns. She’ll freak!”
“What were you going to tell her if she found out you took off?” he asked, keeping his voice easy to encourage continuing confidences.
“I don’t know.” Back to mumbling. “Just that, like, I had a fight with one of my friends or something.”
Ethan drew him to a stop beside his GMC Yukon. “Here’s your ride.”
His head turned back toward the light-rail station. “I’ll go straight home, I swear! Please, mister. I mean, Detective.”
Ethan shook his head. “We’ll talk to your mom. She may be more understanding than you think she will be.”
“She won’t! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“In,” Ethan said inflexibly, holding open the passenger door.
As he walked around to the driver’s side, he watched through the windshield in case the kid tried to make a break for it. All he did was slump in defeat.
Once Ethan was in, he hit the button to lock the doors. “All right,” he said. “No more dancing around. I need your name.”
The kid jerked a one-shoulder shrug and mumbled again, although this time Ethan heard him. “Jake Vennetti.”
“Vennetti.” Oh, damn. Why hadn’t he seen the resemblance right away? “Your father was Matt Vennetti.”
Jake sneaked a look sidelong with those chocolate-brown eyes just like his father’s. “Yeah.”
Ethan opened his mouth and closed it before he could say aloud what he was thinking. Oh, shit. Jake was right; his mother was going to freak. She had good reason to hate guns.
In fact, this boy, sitting beside Ethan, had to be the one who’d gotten his hands on his father’s service weapon and accidentally shot another kid, who died. From there, the tragedy had cascaded. In the end, Portland Police Bureau Officer Matt Vennetti had ended up killing himself. Not with the same gun, but he’d swallowed a gun nonetheless. It all happened—Ethan wasn’t sure. Five years ago? Six? He knew Matt’s only son was a little boy and not to blame, which wasn’t to say he didn’t blame himself.
“I went to your father’s funeral,” he said quietly. Despite his rage at a man who’d leave that kind of burden on his wife and child. “Your dad and I rode patrol together early on.”
Head ducked, Jake didn’t respond.
Perturbed, Ethan said, “I can look up your address if I have to. Why don’t you just give me directions.”
“Like I have any choice,” the boy spat.
Ethan started the engine. “You didn’t do anything so bad today. I cut school in my time, too.”
Jake turned his head sharply away. Ethan had a bad feeling it was to hide tears.
* * *
WHERE COULD HE BE?
Laura Vennetti paced, her phone clutched in her hand. Fear squeezed her heart. She’d be purely mad instead of scared if Jake had ever done anything like this before, but he hadn’t. It wasn’t like him at all. He was a good student. Never in trouble. She’d fear a kidnapping if a classmate hadn’t reluctantly told the principal that he’d seen Jake get on a city bus.
He’d been gone hours