A Child's Wish. Tara Quinn Taylor
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yet—she’d thought the legal part would be the most difficult. “State has to appoint one for you.”
Barbie slid down the roundness of his belly until she rested at the top of his thighs. “You sure about that?”
“Yep.”
Then he moved and she couldn’t think about Kelsey or being a mother anymore. Don wasn’t like Mark in bed. He had lots of tricks, kept her guessing, and as usual she gave herself over to whatever he had in mind. It always ended in orgasm and those moments were glorious.
MEREDITH APPROACHED her Mustang in the deserted parking lot an hour after school let out. It was only Wednesday afternoon and already she was worn out—longing for the weekend, forty-eight hours of anonymity, hot baths, good books and little responsibility.
Her students, whether picking up on her own tension or bringing it from home, had been restless as well, talking too much, too loudly, focusing only in short spurts. And that afternoon during art class Erin had tripped near Meredith’s desk, and now Meredith had a patch of red poster paint staining the white silk blouse she’d worn with her black slacks and white-and-black pumps.
Black-and-white jewelry, black-and-white leather satchel. She’d been hoping for a black-and-white kind of day—and had ended up splattered in red.
“Ms. Foster, could we have a word with you?”
Glancing up sharply, Meredith stopped. She’d noted the van in the parking lot, of course. Enough to be aware that it was there. Not enough to have noticed the Tulsa local-news logo on the side or the two people who had just emerged from it.
“We’d just like to ask a couple of questions.”
She walked past them to her car.
“We’re interested in the editorial that ran in Monday’s Republic. I understand that the newspaper didn’t contact you. Is that correct?”
She looked at the brunette, who was her age, at least, dressed in jeans and a white sweater, and wondered if she liked her job. The hefty, bearded cameraman behind her she ignored completely.
“We’ve got some good tape from Mr. Barnett,” the woman said, her eyes showing something akin to sympathy. “My producer was ready to run with it, but I insisted that you deserved to have your side told, as well.”
Keys in hand, Meredith stood there another second, assessing. Granted, her senses weren’t honed at the moment, but she believed the other woman was sincere.
The brunette dropped her mic at her side. “He was pretty brutal,” she said. “I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
Meredith glanced back at the school. Mark would kill her if she said anything.
And if she didn’t? She’d be crucified.
Who’d stick up for her? Ruth Barnett? Hardly. The woman was a classic battered woman, so intimidated by her jerk of an ex-husband that she’d still lie just because he told her to. And that left—who? Her boss? Fat chance.
“What do you want to know?” She regretted the words even as she said them. There would be hell to pay. And at the same time, she felt better. She’d done nothing wrong, had nothing to be ashamed of. Unlike Larry Barnett.
“Did you tell Mr. Barnett’s wife that he was abusing his son?”
Meredith glanced at the school one more time. This was her last chance to walk away.
But for what? To let that man take everything from her, without even trying to defend herself?
“You can’t blame people for what they’re going to think, if you don’t give them another perspective,” the other woman said, her gaze compassionate.
“I told her I suspected his father was inflicting some pretty severe emotional abuse.”
“You suspect,” the woman said, moving nearer with her microphone as the cameraman closed in behind her. Meredith was trapped between her still-locked car door and what suddenly felt like two vultures. The school was behind her—a perfect backdrop.
“You have no proof,” the woman prompted gently, after a long pause.
“No.”
“What made you suspect?” The question was more curiosity than accusation. She was receiving a fair chance to be heard. Which was more than she’d expected following Mark’s pronouncement Monday night over ice cream. Ruth Barnett had said her ex-husband was not going to let this go away.
Give me strength, she asked her unseen source of guidance—as she’d already done uncountable times over the past week.
“Tommy was a student in my class. I listened to him, as I listen to all of my students.”
The reporter’s eyes narrowed. “So Tommy told you?” she asked, perhaps seeing a larger story brewing. If it was found that the D.A. actually was abusing his son, she’d have a much bigger audience for a longer period of time.
“No.” Meredith hated to disappoint her. She sighed, searching for the best words. “But every time fathers were mentioned, or Tommy mentioned his father, I sensed that there was great turmoil. But no physical danger—at least not yet.”
“You sensed.”
Meredith nodded.
“As in how? You just thought about it and reached this conclusion?”
That was how Mark saw the situation. And probably the majority of Bartlesville, as well. Meredith was tempted just to leave them to it. In the end, it might be far less painful than to have everyone think she was some kind of quack.
But if she didn’t stand up for herself, who would? How could anyone even have a chance of choosing to believe her, to understand, to support her, if she didn’t speak out?
And if she allowed herself to be lied about, allowed her credibility to be crushed beneath Larry Barnett’s expensively shod foot, how would she ever do any good in this world?
A vision of Tommy Barnett’s innocent young face appeared before her.
“I get feelings,” she said. “I tune in, focus deeply and I can feel what other people are feeling. Sometimes.”
“So you’re saying you’re psychic.”
“No.” She didn’t believe there were special people who were granted the right to know everything about someone else, both past and future. “I don’t get grand messages,” she said. “I’m not told secrets, nor can I predict anything that’s going to happen in the future—no more than you can predict your own future. I can just feel what they’re feeling. Sometimes.”
She wasn’t some kind of weirdo. She didn’t run around town invading people’s privacy.
“What am I feeling?”
“I don’t know.” She didn’t want to know. She wanted to go home. Perhaps cry. Call her mom. Take a hot bath.
“What’s he feeling?”
“I don’t—” Meredith glanced at the cameraman, let her guard down without meaning to. “Good,” she said, head slightly tilted as she eyed him with warning. “Not nice, but good. Self-satisfied. I’d guess he’s having inappropriate thoughts about something or someone and feeling good about them.”
The camera slipped, was righted…and Meredith met the man’s eyes. She didn’t know if she’d been the target of his thoughts and she didn’t know if they’d been sexual in nature or just mean-spirited, but she knew she’d caught him.
And he knew it, too.
The reporter chuckled uneasily. “Uh, you ever think about working with the police?”
The woman believed her.
“No.” Meredith smiled straight into the camera. “I’m a teacher,