Hide The Child. Janice Johnson Kay
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Until the fire, I figured the detectives were insensitive. Maybe neither of them has children. But thinking they’re part of this...”
Gabe pondered that, considering it safer than focusing on his desire to scoop her up in his arms and hold her close. That wasn’t like him, either. Yeah, and she wouldn’t enjoy close contact right now anyway.
“Odds are against the investigators being culpable,” he said after a moment. “Trouble is, unless our guy got lucky and overheard two cops gossiping in a coffee shop, that suggests a killer who has connections in the department.”
“Detective Risvold wasn’t happy with me when I told him his department must have a leak.”
“He was defensive?”
“Maybe?” Her uncertainty came through. “Or worried because the thought had already occurred to him? I couldn’t tell.”
“I’d like to have a talk with him, except I don’t see how I can without giving him an idea where you are.”
“Where you stashed me, you mean?”
He gave a grunt of amusement. “Okay, tomorrow, I need to grocery-shop. I’ll drive to Bend so nobody I’ve met is surprised by what I’m buying. I can stop at Target or Walmart and pick up some toys or movies for Chloe and anything else you need.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I came? I could definitely use clothes and toiletries.”
“No. We can’t risk you being recognized.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to argue. “You can’t tell me you don’t have clients who live in Deschutes County. You could be recognized.”
“The odds of someone I know happening to be in the same store at the right time isn’t—”
“Give me sizes.” He sounded inflexible for good reason; this wasn’t negotiable. He could tell she was irritated, but he couldn’t let that bother him. “You hurt besides,” he pointed out. “Do you really want to try on jeans?”
She grimaced.
“I’ll have Boyd come over while I’m gone.”
Her forehead crinkled. “Joseph didn’t sound as if he completely trusted this Boyd. He thought he might have gotten soft.”
Gabe came close to laughing. “That hasn’t happened.” Just for fun, he’d tell Boyd what her brother said.
Her eyes searched his. “He won’t tell anyone we’re here?”
“He already knows. I needed to be sure he was ready to act if I called.”
When Trina turned her head, he, too, realized the background voices and music from the TV had stopped in the living room. Before either of them could rise, the kid appeared. So much for everything else they needed to discuss. But maybe one day at a time was good enough, Gabe thought. The last twenty-four hours had upended Trina’s life, and Chloe’s for a second time.
“Movie over?” Trina asked, holding out her hand.
Nodding, the kid reached Trina and climbed into her lap. The lack of hesitation spoke of her trust.
That got him wondering how Chloe had come to be living with the psychologist who’d been working with her. That had to be unusual. He’d never had the slightest interest in building personal ties with any of the social workers and therapists who’d made him think of mosquitoes, persistent as hell, whining nonstop, determined to suck his memories as if they were blood.
And maybe that was fitting, because his memories were of blood, so much he sometimes dreamed he was drowning in it.
Dr. Marr hadn’t yet tried to crack him open, but give her time.
“Let’s go run you a bath,” she said to the little girl in her lap. “We’ll dig in that bag and see if Vicky sent any pajamas along.”
Chloe’s eyes widened.
Trina chuckled. “We’ll find something. If nothing else, you can sleep in this top and your panties.” She nudged Chloe off her lap and rose stiffly to her feet. Looking at him, she said, “I need a mug or something I can use to rinse her hair.”
“Sure.” He poked in the cupboard until he found a good-size plastic measuring cup with a handle.
“Perfect,” she said, taking it from him. She’d reverted to looking a little shy. “Let’s march, Chloe-o.”
The little girl giggled. His own mouth curved at the sound. Glancing back, Trina caught him smiling, and was obviously startled. He got rid of the smile.
“This bedtime?” he asked, nodding at Chloe.
“Uh-uh!”
It took him a second to realize the protest had been verbal. “She talks,” he teased.
Trina shook her head. “Now you’ve done it, kiddo. You won’t be able to fool him again.”
And damn, he wanted to smile.
* * *
SOMEHOW TRINA ALWAYS ended up wet even though it wasn’t her taking the bath. Chloe liked waves, and she liked to splash. She did not like having her hair washed or getting water or soap in her eyes.
At home, Trina had had a plastic stool she’d bought for the express purpose of supervising baths and washing Chloe’s hair. Today, she’d knelt on the bath mat. Chuckling as she bundled the three-year-old in a towel, Trina said, “As much as you love your bath, I think you’re ready for swim lessons.”
Chloe went rigid, panic in her eyes.
Going on alert, Trina used a finger to tip up her chin. “Or have you taken them before?”
Lips pinched together, Chloe shook her head.
On instinct, Trina kept talking, if only to fill the silence. “Maybe swim lessons are offered only during the summer.” She should know, but she tended to tune out when colleagues and friends who had children started talking about things like that. Had Chloe been disturbed only because she was afraid to put her face in the water? But Trina didn’t buy that. Taking a wild guess, she said, “Were you supposed to go to the pool that day? When the bad things happened?”
Suddenly, tears were rolling down the little girl’s cheeks. Seeming unaware of them, she nodded.
“Were you going to learn to swim?”
She shook her head.
“Brian?” Chloe’s brother had been six, a first grader.
She nodded again, her eyes shimmering with the tears that kept falling.
“Had you just not left yet?”
Another shake of the head. Trina had a helpless moment that gave her new sympathy for Detective Risvold’s frustration.
But then Chloe whispered, “Brian pooked.”
Pooked. “Puked? He was sick?”
She gave a forlorn sniff. “Uh-huh.”
“Did you see who came to your house, pumpkin?”
Chloe buried her face in Trina’s scrub top. Her whole body trembled.
Trina wrapped her in her arms and laid her cheek against the little girl’s wet head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry. You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready. I promise.”
Worried when there was no response, she used a hand towel to dry Chloe’s cheeks, had her blow her nose with a wad of toilet paper, then briskly dried her and pulled the My Little Pony nightgown she’d found in the duffel over her head. “Okay, let’s brush your hair.”
She found no hair dryer in the drawers and thought about asking Gabe if he had one in his bathroom, but then realized how pointless that would be. All he’d have to do was rub