Some Gave All Read Free Page A

worth, but enough to remind him that he was loved. And that he was not alone.
    “Look.” He began walking down the gravel path through a rickety wooden arch. On either side, snow coated skeletal bushes and a sturdy oak tree, an outstretched limb sporting two long pieces of frayed rope and a splintered wooden board—a homemade tree swing. Neglected, forgotten, unused.
    But that wasn’t what Vincent was looking at. On the right side of the path, frosted with silvery white, a single red rose graced an otherwise barren rose bush. It was a lush velvety crimson, and as radiant as a jewel. Spring in the heart of winter.
    Even in the darkest place, there is hope
, the rose seemed to whisper. And as Cat admired it, she turned to Vincent, took off her glove, and cupped his icy cheek.
    “I had a dream,” she said.
    He smiled very faintly. “I did too. I dream it every day.”
    “Mountains? And just a
small
dog.” When he nodded slightly, her heart overflowed and she murmured in a rush, “Vincent, I love you.”
    He swallowed hard before replying, “I love you too.”
    “Whatever this thing is, we can deal with it together,” she said. “We
are
dealing with it together.”
    His lips parted. Then he inclined his head and kissed her, wrapped her hand with his, and placed them both in his pocket.
    “It’s so cold today,” he murmured. “Your hand’s like ice.”
    “You know what they say: ‘Cold hands, warm heart.’”
    He gave her fingers a squeeze and she leaned against him for a moment. Then she put her glove back on. They were on police business, and it was a somber occasion. Still, it was so wonderful to wake up beside Vincent without double-checking for the whirr of helicopters that life was truly like a waking dream, even with all that was going on.
    Together they walked up the path and Cat gingerly stepped onto the porch. A frayed American-flag welcome mat contributed to the pervasive patriotic theme. She held up her badge as she pressed the corroded doorbell. She heard no sound, and was about to knock on the door when it opened.
    From yesterday’s phone conversation, Cat knew that Maurice Riley was sick. Terminally ill, in fact. He had six months at most, he had told her. But she was still shocked by the cavernous hollows in his cheeks and the eggplant-purple circles under his eyes. He was wearing a white collared shirt, a pair of charcoal-gray trousers, and polished loafers. He had dressed for the occasion as well. In his left hand he held the letter he had told her about—the primary reason they were here. It had been Vincent’s idea to make a special presentation to Maurice Riley in addition to the interview.
    “Mr. Riley,” she began. “I’m Detective Chandler. And this is—”
    “I’d know you anywhere, Dr. Keller,” Riley cut in. He tried to smile, but his lower lip quivered. “Roxie sent me pictures.” He held out his hand, then glimpsed the object Vincent was holding. His eyes welled and he took a step back. “Please, come in.”
    “I should have come before,” Vincent said as they entered his home.
    Cat took in a worn sofa in a cabbage rose pattern, two chairs upholstered in frayed brown corduroy, and a fireplace containing ashes. Over the mantel, a large golden frame surrounded a studio portrait of a young woman in army dress uniform, with light brown skin and chestnut eyes shining with pride. It was Roxanne Lafferty, from Delta Company, one of Vincent’s comrades in arms in Afghanistan.
    And a fellow Muirfield victim.
    A gold plaque mounted to the bottom section of the frame read ALL GAVE SOME BUT SOME GAVE ALL .
    “How could you come any sooner, son? I saw you on TV. You talked about your… amnesia.” Mr. Riley hesitated on the last word.
    “I should have found a way,” Vincent said, hinting that the amnesia story was a lie. He gestured with his head to the box he was holding. “For her, I should have done it.”
    “Well, you’re here now.” Mr. Riley’s voice wobbled a