Page 25 of Claiming His Bunny
As far as I know, he has never touched his own kids in a wrong way. Both his son and daughter are normal teenagers with no history of abuse. Not a single trip to the ER, aside from when his son broke his hand skateboarding, not a single suspicion reported by their teachers. For all intents and purposes, the Obermans are a perfect, loving family.
Except my skin crawls as I watch Carl’s picture. The monster inside me is primed to kill him already, but it will have to wait. I won’t act until I have solid evidence. Normally, I’d stalk the man for a while. Wire his house and hack his phone to get a feeling of how he acts, how he thinks.
Except Carl fucking Oberman lives all the way down in Louisiana, which is over a nine-hour drive from here. It’s a good thing, since nobody will think to connect the case to Bluebell Springs, but it’s also a terrible thing because it would take me away from my bunny for days, and I simply can’t accept that.
Even now, I long to watch her, to hear her voice. She’s still working, going to a hospital to talk to Aaron Adams.
A troubled boy. What will she tell him? How will she communicate with a kid who’s so deep inside his own mind he can’t find a way out? Or maybe Aaron doesn’t want to find a way out. Maybe he prefers to stay inside his head because he knows the world is a terrible place and the people in it are cruel assholes.
I need to know what she says. I need to hear every single word that leaves her mouth.
Without thinking about it further, I close Carl Oberman’s file and hide it in a secret compartment of my secret basement room. He can wait. Right now, I need my bunny.
Kayla
The child therapist’s officeat the hospital is a calm and welcoming place. The therapist herself, Doctor Singh, is neither. As soon as Michelle and I enter, she starts yapping at us like an angry Chihuahua.
“You cannot be here!” she hisses, casting a side look at a boy sitting quietly on a colorful carpet. It’s one of those carpets with roads and buildings, and Aaron seems to be hopping around the illustrated town with a toy animal, oblivious to our presence and his therapist’s angry voice.
“Doctor Singh,” Michelle says calmly, “we are investigating potential child abuse.”
The doctor glares at us. She’s even shorter than I am and has to crane her neck up to look at Michelle. With her menacing look and the fact that she can’t stop us from being here, it really does feel like a Chihuahua barking at us. “Not without his father present! And Doctor Adams specifically forbade this. You’ll just upset the poor boy.”
“You are the one upsetting him with your shouting, Doctor,” I point out, inclining my head in Aaron’s direction. The boy is still either unaware of our presence or doesn’t care about being near complete strangers, which strikes a strange discord with his file and what Benjamin Adams has told Michelle.
“Exactly,” Michelle says. “We will be talking to Aaron today. His father had the chance to attend this meeting, but he kept brushing me off when I reached out to him about it. You know as well as I do that when there’s suspicion the child is being abused by their legal guardian, we’re allowed to interview them without the guardian present.”
“This…” Singh gasps, bulging her eyes. Yep, definitely a Chihuahua. “This is unacceptable! I’ll let Doctor Adams know about this!”
Knowing we don’t have much time before Dr. Asshole comes barging in, I exchange glances with Michelle. She looks at me meaningfully, then jerks her chin toward Aaron. After issuing the silent order, she turns back to Dr. Singh. “Doctor, I need you to show me Aaron’s file again. It seems there has been some problem with the file transfer and…”
Tuning them out, I focus on Aaron, who still hasn’t even as much as looked in my direction. This is going to be difficult. Non-verbal children aren’t my specialty. Back in college, I took a class on communicating with children on the autism spectrum, but learning about it and actually putting it to use are two very different things.
Besides, I don’t think Aaron is autistic. It feels more like he’s traumatized, hiding from the world. But why? Because his mother is mentally ill and was taken away from him? Or because his father tormented his mother until he broke her and is now doing the same to Aaron? How am I going to get answers from a boy who doesn’t talk?
With a sigh, I kneel on the carpet a few feet away from him, far enough to not startle him but close enough to show I’m interested in communicating with him. “Hello, Aaron,” I say. “I’m Kayla. I’d like to play with you for a bit, if that’s okay?”
Aaron doesn’t react in any way. He’s holding a black toy horse, making it hop around a pasture painted on the carpet.
Undeterred, I look around to see if there are other toy horses. Perhaps if I had the same one, it would give us something to communicate about. As I lean over the toy box, my bag slides down to my stomach.
Since I expected to spend the day in the office, I’m wearing casual clothes—a simple pair of jeans and a loose top, paired with one of my favorite crossbody bags. I got it ages ago from my mom, and even though the hand-painted picture on it is a little infantile, I still love wearing it.
Absentmindedly, I fling the strap over my shoulder, set the purse aside, and continue rummaging through the many toys in the box. There are no horses, but I find a toy dog and decide to go with it. Dogs are nice too, right?
When I raise my eyes from the box, I barely stop myself from yelping out in surprise. Aaron is right beside me, animatedly observing my purse.
Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? “Those are kelpies,” I explain softly, pointing at the painting on the purse. “Water spirits that can take the shape of a horse. Though some say they’re half horse, half fish. I don’t see how that would be useful, though,” I say, grinning.
Aaron opens his mouth as if he’s about to speak, then closes it. He repeats it several times before I realize he’s not trying to talk. He’s mimicking a fish.
“Yes, a fish,” I confirm, barely containing my excitement. He’s communicating with me. Sure, it’s not the kind of intake interview I’ve been trained for, but beggars can’t be choosers. “That’s how the artist drew it on this bag, anyway. You can touch it if you want.”
Aaron’s fingers hover over the bag, and he looks at me. There’s excitement in his wide brown eyes, but also so much fear it makes my heart ache. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” I urge him, smiling when he runs his fingers over the picture of the mythological creature. “Can I take a look at your horse, too?”
Aaron jerks back, clutching his toy to his chest. That’s a no if I ever saw one.
“Alright,” I say softly. “You don’t have to give it to me. God knows I’ve never been good at sharing toys, either. And I have three siblings, so you can imagine the fights we had over toys. I’ve had a whole herd of toy horses. I love them too, you know? I’ve always wanted to ride one, but it was just too expensive, and now…well, now I’m too busy talking to young men like you.” I’m rambling, but I’m not sure what to say to draw Aaron in again. “Does your horse have a name?”
