Just Once

Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.

—Plato

Prologue

Brooklyn, 20 years ago

A brand-new computer?

Landon McGee was almost afraid to touch the black ThinkPad laptop. It was gorgeous, the cover so smooth as it stared up at him from where Mama Lou had nestled it inside a blanket inside a big box, and then wrapped for his birthday. He still couldn’t believe it. His own computer?

Landon had wanted a computer since, oh, about ever, but he had never said anything. So how did she know?

He’d never even discussed it with Nick or Fender. They’d understand because they always understood him, but they’d have given him shit about it, too. So he’d kept it to himself.

What is it, L? Fender peeked over his shoulder. Landon was the first of the boys to have his birthday, and Fender’s excitement—and the reality of what possibly awaited him for his thirteenth birthday in a few months—was palpable.

Landon bent and pulled the blanket out, careful with the precious cargo inside as Mama Lou gently removed the box from underneath. He let the blanket fall away and held up his new treasure.

His fingertips played over the lid before he turned toward her. It’s too expensive.

It’s a gift.

Something punched between his ribs with fists the size of the Incredible Hulk’s, knocking the breathless joy out of the way. Thank you for this, but it’s too expensive.

A small flash of sadness filled Mama Lou’s eyes before they widened in surprise when he shoved the blanket at her and leaped off the couch. The strains of a Christmas special echoed from the TV, but all Landon saw was a dim mixture of red and green as he raced past the screen and out of the room.

Up one flight. Then up the second of their Brooklyn brownstone.

He lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress still as hard and firm as when she’d bought it for him almost three years ago. Nick and Fender had matching ones and they regularly sprawled over theirs or bounced on them the moment they came in from school. Landon had worked hard to keep his feeling new. Unused. Unnoticed.

How had she known he wanted the computer? And a ThinkPad, too? Not only was it top of the line, but it had crazy memory and it was supersturdy and well—

It was awesome.

The sky outside his window was already dark, even though it was only six o’clock. The streetlights on Cherry Street sent up a fluorescent glow, and Christmas lights winked on the house across the street. It was cozy and warm and so different from where he spent his first ten years. There were some streetlights there, too, but they were out as often as they were on. A few people decorated for Christmas, but most of the time no one cared or paid any attention.

He liked it when no one paid attention. It meant he could go around unnoticed. If you stayed invisible, people left you alone. But somehow, he hadn’t managed to stay invisible to Mama Lou. From that first day they met her, right before he, Nick, and Fender had to go back into the school building from recess, she’d seen him. Seen all of them.

For instance, she knew how much Nick loved sports. On his last birthday she got him new football cleats and signed him up to play in the school peewee league, even though she kept saying she’d kill him if he got hurt.

Their mom also figured out real quick how good Fender was with puzzles. From the jigsaw puzzles they did spread out on the dining room table to the things she let him take apart and put back together, she always seemed to know when Fender got restless and needed to keep his hands busy.

Which left him. Although she’d adopted all of them, he’d officially been her son the longest. Landon knew he shouldn’t care about that—he was happy with his new life—but it still sort of hurt that his real mom hadn’t given a shit when Mama Lou made noises about adopting him out of foster care. It was real nice of her and things were a lot better than before, but he couldn’t help wondering why his mom didn’t put up a fight like Nick’s dad or Fender’s old man.

The knock pulled him out of his thoughts. Landon?

His heart spun around in his chest before dropping into his belly. Was she mad? Hey.

I wanted to see how you’re doing. It’s a shame to spend your birthday stuck up here in your room.

I thought— He scrambled to sit up. I thought it might be better.

To sit in your room and miss your presents and cake?

Presents? As in plural? He tamped down on the shot of excitement and focused on why he’d escaped the living room. I thought maybe you were mad.

Why would I be mad?

I don’t know. The words spilled out in a rush, his throat closing on the last syllable.

Only he did know. He knew he hurt her feelings, and he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to hurt anybody. He just wanted to stay invisible.

If you mean about the computer, I’m not mad.

But I bet I hurt your feelings.

She took a seat on the edge of his bed, her hand closing over one of his big clown feet. You didn’t hurt my feelings.

Landon looked up at that, not believing her. But I gave you your gift back.

That’s what I wanted to talk about. She squeezed his foot. If you really don’t want it, I’ll take it back and we can find a new present that you’d rather have.

Rather have? There was nothing he wanted more than a brand new laptop. Okay.

But before we do that, I’d like to ask you a question.

Sure.

Do you want the computer?

Did he want it? Holy shit, he wanted it so bad. Like he wanted to breathe. And like he wanted to keep living here. And like he wanted to make her happy.

It’s expensive.

That wasn’t my question.

He knew Mama Lou had a big job in the city before she came back to Brooklyn. She didn’t talk about it much, but one night when they were watching TV Nick had asked her about it. About that time.

The time before them.

They were all curious—he and his brothers had talked about her, of course—but she’d never said much. She didn’t say much that night either, but she shared enough. He knew she’d lived in Manhattan and was a career woman. She had gone to an office every day, which, he figured, meant she did important things. It seemed a far cry from all the taxes she did now, sometimes at the dining room table, sometimes at people’s houses. He’d wanted to ask her if she missed those times, but he’d been afraid to. What if she did miss those times being a career woman? He watched enough TV to know someone with an office job made a whole lot more than a woman with three kids who did people’s taxes at the dining-room table. What if she wanted to go back to that?

Landon? When he didn’t say anything, she gave his foot another light squeeze. Would you like the computer?

Yes. One word—just a whisper—but it shot out of him with all the force of a rocket launched toward space. And then before he could stop himself, more words spilled out, one stronger and more excited than the next.

It’s a great computer. I’ve been saving for one and I don’t have much but I can give that to you. You know. Toward the cost.

But it’s your birthday present.

I know. But I know how much it cost. And it’s a lot. For you. You know, to take on.

She didn’t say anything, and Landon didn’t know what else to say. They sat like that for quite a while, her hand on his foot and his gaze focused in rapt attention on the way her fingers gently settled there.

I used to use a computer at my job. Every day, as a matter of fact. I know how important a computer is to create things and build code.

You’re a coder?

She laughed at that, a warm sound that always made him feel safe. No, nothing like that. I trust others know how to write the programs I need. But I’m quite grateful to those people. The ones who understand how computers work and how to create software.

I bet you made a lot of money when you worked in the office.

I did.

He wondered if he should say anything more, but the words tumbled out before he could stop them. You don’t make that much anymore. And you didn’t have kids before. Three kids who eat a lot.

She squeezed his foot before she reached over and pressed a hand to his cheek. He liked when she did that, even though it was a dumb, babyish thing. She was always doing stuff like that. Touching their faces or giving them hugs or pulling them close to kiss their cheeks. It was the kind of thing real moms did.

You’re right. Those things do cost money.

Nick eats a lot.

She giggled at that. You and Fender keep up pretty well.

Images of their pancake-eating contest the prior Sunday morning drifted through his mind. I bet there’s not a lot of money left over.

You’re right about something. I did make a lot of money before. And I invested it well. I have more than enough for all of us, and more than enough to buy my son a present for his birthday.

But—

Would you like the computer?

Yes.

Will it help you with the coding work you’ve been learning in school?

Yes.

Then it seems to me like it’s not just a good birthday present, but a pretty good investment, too.

Landon sat there, weighing her words. He would use the computer every day. And if he had his own he could keep working on his school projects instead of having to take a break in the evenings. He could even write a program for her to keep up with her clients’ schedules during tax season.

I could help you, you know.

You could?

He rushed on. With your clients. And your schedule. And we could even connect it to your e-mail program so you could confirm their appointments and what you need them to bring along because of how so many of them forget all their receipts.

That sounds like an amazing idea.

I can do that. With the computer. I even know the code to use to create it.

The smile was back in her eyes when she reached over and tousled his hair. Then it really would be a shame to take it back.

I think it would.

The distant creak of the elevator echoed from the far side of the house. Sounds like Mrs. Weston.

She does love that elevator.

She also loves cake. Mama Lou glanced toward the door. Race ya!

His mother shot off the bed and out the door, hollering as she went for his brothers to help Mrs. W. out of the elevator. Landon got off his bed and straightened the covers, his mind already wandering to what he would work on later.

But first he was going to have the biggest piece of birthday cake and celebrate the fact that all his wishes had come true.

One

Landon McGee knew three things about life. It was never boring. It was always kicking you in the ass. And, in the immortal words of Robert Frost, it went on. He also knew that the elements of life that made it endlessly fascinating or shockingly hard—sometimes both—usually came up and blindsided you on a random Tuesday.

Or a Wednesday morning, to be exact.

He’d walked into the loft space he rented in DUMBO ten minutes ago to find it in disarray. He and his suitemates were sort of digital sharecroppers, sharing the cost of the rent, the overhead, and the extremely necessary T-1 line that kept their small businesses afloat. Each of them was a computer geek to the core, ensuring paperwork was in short supply while the latest in equipment and digital design tools were plentiful.

So it was odd to discover that the filing cabinets were among the few items hit.

They might have kept very little paperwork, but Landon and his associates still had some. Not everything could be fully baked into a hard drive or filed away in the cloud.

Rent paperwork, about fifty boxes of coffee pods, and an odd array of love letters their secretary-slash-office manager had been squirreling away in the front reception area now littered the floor.

He’d already done a quick check of the equipment, pissed off to find the new server he’d had delivered on Monday was nowhere to be found. Neither was its twin, which had occupied an oversized technical closet equipped with the latest in security and fire protection.

Fuck it all.

He dragged out his phone and dialed the police, the game design that had accompanied him throughout his walk to work fading in the reality of his morning.

Landon walked the 911 operator through his discovery, well aware he wasn’t going to be anyone’s first priority that morning—especially once he confirmed the office was empty. With a resigned sigh, he settled into the small couch in their front reception area and opened his laptop. The game level that had haunted him all evening and on his walk to work still roiled in the back of his mind. He figured giving the creative images free rein might help soothe the wash of frustration each time he looked at the mess.

Daphne Rossi, detective third grade, found the owner of BKNY Games huddled over his computer, his concentration so intense she briefly flirted with firing off a warning shot just to get his attention. Based on the address given out by dispatch, she’d anticipated a skinny-legged, glasses-clad, official Brooklyn hipster. She was pleasantly surprised to find a pair of running shoes at the bottom of faded, cuffless jeans instead.

Really long, jean-clad legs.

Excuse me? When he didn’t respond, she tapped her foot against his, the move jarring enough to have him scrambling to attention. That impression of height wasn’t false as he stood up, about six-feet-two inches of rather solid male. Nicely toned biceps were evident beneath a black T-shirt with the BKNY logo emblazoned on it.

He blinked, a soft haze fading from his eyes as he focused on her. Thick dark lashes framed equally dark eyes and Daphne took an extra beat to collect herself. Mr. McGee? I’m Detective Rossi.

He smoothly closed his slender, worn laptop and extended a hand. Thank you for coming.

Daphne took his hand, the grip firm, and once again she had to admit he wasn’t quite what she imagined on the walk over. His surroundings might scream creative genius, but there was something really interesting about the arc of Landon McGee’s cheekbones and the lines of his stubbled jaw. When she reluctantly dropped his hand, she allowed her initial impressions to round out.

He was lean, no question, but solid. His shoulders had some breadth to them and there was muscle in the cords of his forearms. Perhaps the desk jockey had outside interests?

Dispatch told me you had a break-in. Why don’t you walk me through what’s missing?

Not much, which is the strange part. But enough.

He pointed out the filing cabinets in the lobby before leading her into the office. Daphne followed from the small reception area into a large loft space. She hadn’t spent much time in DUMBO but had met a friend at her office a few times off Water Street and had attended a gallery opening on Plymouth. Landon McGee’s office was a bit farther down the block, where Water intersected Washington, and boasted the money-shot view of the Manhattan Bridge the neighborhood had become known for.

Wow. How’d you snag this office?

I know the owner. Got in on a long-term lease.

She fought the twin urges to whistle and gawk and simply allowed the view to wash over her. Summer sun streamed in the large windows, and it was only when she pulled her view from the bridge that she took in the rest of the space. More couches took up a far corner, arranged for conversation and collaboration. Maybe even for sleep after a late night.

She continued her assessment, snapping impressions of the large, open space like photographs. The office’s desks were more long tables than single pieces with drawers, all arrayed with computer monitors, wireless keyboards, and scattered laptops. Certainly different from a cop shop, where you took pride in the number of scars carved into your desk, and files spilled out of drawers that didn’t fully close.

What’s the smile for?

His low voice and quiet speculation pulled her from her musings, and she turned to him fully. Cliché. We humans are full of it.

In spades, I’m afraid. Although I don’t quite get the context.

I can see you and your coworkers here. Brooklyn technology mavens, hunched over screens and napping on those couches back there after a late night.

Maven? That’s a new one.

She ignored the subtle amusement and pressed on. Cops nap, too. And scream and shout from behind ratty old desks that have seen more partners than a Hollywood starlet. Somehow we all manage to get things done.

Is there a philosopher lurking beneath the dress blues?

Only on the formal occasions where my dress blues are required.

Fair enough.

The moment was small—silly—yet she couldn’t shake the subtle sweetness that pervaded the conversation. He wasn’t what she expected, and she’d expected a lot. Tech geek. Neighborhood hipster. And victim.

Yet he seemed more resigned than upset.

Any idea who paid you a visit last night?

None. I’m usually here late, but I left early last night for my brother’s engagement party. None of us keep formal hours, but there’s usually someone here until at least ten. Often much later.

And yet you show up here at six? She consulted her notebook. According to dispatch.

I don’t sleep much.

Something small jingled at his words, but Daphne kept her features still. No?

Not since I was a kid. Add on a game idea that’s taking shape, and I’m sort of obsessed.

What sort of game?

Zombies. Adventure. Multiple players. It’s awesome.

I’ll take your word for it.

His lips curved up, the expression boyish except for the day-old stubble that lined his jaw. That was not boyish. Or easy to ignore.

You pointed out the mess in the front. Anything else missing? The desks don’t look nearly as cleaned out as I’d have expected.

Most of my suitemates take their laptops home so they’ll need to confirm if anything’s missing, but the desks don’t look like they were hit at all. He glanced toward the back of the office. A long galley kitchen took up half the space, positioned next to an extended wall with a thick black door. Two servers are missing in our back room. Our locked back room.

Locked?

Yep. Found it when I checked everything this morning.

You were here alone.

He shrugged. The office was empty, but something felt off.

Another reason you should have called us.

I did call you.

You should have left the moment you saw anything out of place.

No one was here. And seeing as how they were my servers, full of my work, I didn’t want to wait.

Once again, that sense of something out of place—out of time—struck her. He wasn’t exactly what he seemed, even as she couldn’t identify anything that felt threatening or off.

No, it was something else. Something more. Something that said this man had seen things. Knew things. Which had her looking at her notebook again. Do you have any enemies, Mr. McGee?

Landon is fine. And none that I’m aware of.

She glanced up sharply, her pen going still. None at all?

That surprise you?

Frankly, yes.

It was Landon’s turn to go still, his dark eyes wary. Why would you think I have enemies, Detective?

I ran your name on the way over here. You have a well-respected, adoptive mother. A brother who played professional football. There are more than a few local stories that pop online.

Since when did adoption become a big story?

When you raise three of the most upstanding citizens in the borough, people notice. Daphne pointed toward the windows and the bridge that rose up in the distance beyond. Citizens who’ve done quite well for themselves in their own right. Which takes me back to my first question. Are you sure there’s no one from your past who wishes you ill?

Landon kept his features still, forcing a blank stare. He’d perfected the tactic as a kid and continued to use it to great effect. His mother called it his still waters look. Landon just considered it self-protection.

Why would anyone come after me? I make games.

Why don’t you tell me about your work?

Detective Daphne Rossi settled a hip on the long row of desks, just enough stubbornness in her chocolate gaze to confirm she wasn’t going anywhere.

Landon made a show of setting his laptop down before he retrieved two of the rolling swivel chairs that lined the row of desks. Pushing one toward her, he gestured toward the seat. Please.

She took the proffered chair and, once settled, glanced at her notebook. Why don’t we start with this place? Tell me about the people you work with.

The implication the theft was an inside job was unsettling, but he was hard-pressed to ignore her logic. Other than shared space, he and his office mates came and went at all hours, their individual areas relatively unsecured from each other. Even with that reality, he struggled to believe one of his officemates did this.

I share this space with about five other businesses. That number’s been as low as three and as high as eight, but there are six of us now. The office is congenial and we get along. I also shot all of my fellow leads texts to let them know what was going on after I called this in.

You didn’t call them?

You every work with tech folks? Most aren’t morning people. The ones who have replied promised to be in soon, but no one’s bothered to call.

No one cares? You all share this office. Different businesses without locked-down technology.

He knew it didn’t appear as such to an outsider, but the hardware on the desks was the least of his investment. His time, effort, and energy were worth far more than the relatively few thousands he’d invested in equipment. That’s not what we’re going for here. It’s a collaborative atmosphere.

Her gaze grew sharp at that one. Collaborative and competitive.

How long have you had your detective’s bars?

I’m not sure why—

Indulge me. How long?

Landon didn’t miss the slight grimace, or the subtle pride that tilted her chin before she said, A little over a year.

Did you compete with others?

Of course.

Yet you still work together? Have each other’s back?

Of course we do, but—

Technology is competitive, but I pick the people I surround myself with carefully. Sure, we’ve had a few assholes in here. Or people whose asshole factor rose when they got a bit of success. But on the whole, everyone’s decent.

I’ll need to question them as well.

You should. I’m the one who got here first and called this in. It’s entirely possible they’re missing items as well. We’ll know once everyone starts trickling in.

Quiet descended once more. Landon suspected his diversion tactics wouldn’t last much longer—the very attractive detective looked too smart for that—but he did admire how she took notes and seemed intent on doing a thorough job. While his corner of the world had cleaned up considerably since he was a kid, there was still plenty of crime in Brooklyn. Robberies were, sadly, still a dime a