Page 29 of Five
I could have held onto it, but the truth is, I want to be closer to her, and the trash can is right outside the room where she sits.
Neve.
She’s got her profile to me now, and there’s this angle where her jawline disappears into her hair that has my fingers itching to trace it, to see if her skin is as soft and sensitive as I imagine.
A muscle in my jaw clenches as I tighten it, trying not to think about kissing along that jawbone, undressing her slowly, enjoying every inch of her skin as it’s revealed. Sharing her with the rest of the guys as we all put our hands on her.
Is it because I’m attracted to her, or simply because I know who she is that’s got me tied in knots like this?
Fuck, I need to pull myself together. My thoughts are so inappropriate right now they’re not even in the same vicinity as anything approaching professional, and with a tightening of my fist, I turn on my heel and go in search of the boy and his family.
The ‘quiet room’ is a little less frenetic than the main play area. The colors here are muted and soothing. There are bean bags in pastel shades, a corner filled with shelving, upon which dozens of colorful, well-loved books are stacked, and one of those utility cart things with clear drawers filled with colored pencils and paper, jigsaw puzzles, and a vast selection of fidget toys which even I can appreciate. Stress balls are a great thing. Especially when they’re super bouncy and you can hurl them at a wall and watch them bounce all over the place. Very satisfying. But a word to the wise? It helps to make sure there’s nothing breakable in the vicinity.
The lighting is low in here, the windows lined with semi-transparent blinds that cut down the harsh glare but still let in soft daylight.
The boy, Henry Barlow, is kneeling in front of a low table, drawing pictures, while his father sits close by, watching the child like a hawk and keeping his hand on his son’s back, like he can’t bear to break that connection.
Single parent— the father, not the mother. It fits the Lost Boys pattern, but I push that aside right now. I don’t want to continue down that line unless it proves absolutely necessary. I don’t want to muddy the waters of this investigation with my own paranoia.
The man glances up at me and I can see the fear in his eyes. I wish I could take it away from him, but nothing I can say will ever ease the crippling paralysis of knowing your child was seconds away from something so horrifically life altering.
The kid is surprisingly calm. He’s young, probably too young to understand the implications of his experience beyond the fact that someone grabbed hold of him. Thank God for small mercies; perhaps he’ll be saved from some of the psychological trauma. I hope so.
Pulling up one of the well-stuffed bean bags, I sit opposite Henry, my knee creaking with an old war wound that bothers me when I tuck myself into positions like this. My eyes flicker to the other adult. Hopefully, I can get up without making a fool of myself.
I knead the joint, hoping to stop it from seizing up, and check out the picture the kid is drawing.
“Hey, can I draw, too?” I ask him.
He’s ignored me so far, silently pressing back into the safety of his father’s arm. Now he cuts a doubtful, sidelong glance at me, then looks at his dad for guidance.
“It’s okay, son. This man’s a police detective. It’s his job to look for clues.” He gives the boy a supportive squeeze, and Henry looks back at me with renewed interest though there’s still apprehension there. I’m not surprised. I’m sure the daycare teaches all about stranger danger, and for all intents and purposes, a stranger is exactly what I am. And as a detective, I’m in plain clothes, so I don’t even have a uniform Henry can use to relate me to being a policeman, someone he might understand he can trust.
“You look for clues like Blue?” Henry asks, hesitantly, throwing several quick glances between me and his picture.
The question startles me. Blue’s Clues was a kid’s TV series my brother loved twenty years ago. I had no idea it was still a thing, but it gives us a talking point at least.
I nod. “Just like Blue. But some of the ways I find clues is by asking questions as well as searching for them.”
Henry bites his lip and scribbles on the page, the colors he’s chosen dark and angry. From the psych classes all detectives take, I know he’s projecting his fear, but he glances at me again as if he’s contemplating my words. Brave boy.
The door opens and shuts quietly behind us, and I realize Neve has come in to sit unobtrusively at the back of the room. Her presence is like an immediate balm, the boy visibly relaxing and seeming more at ease. That tells me a lot about how she relates to these kids.
Henry still doesn’t look at me, but he pushes a piece of paper closer to my side of the table, and I take that as an invitation, pick up a crayon, and start drawing my boat.
“I like boats,” Henry eventually offers.
I smile at him and pick up a bright blue crayon to shade in the sea. “This is my boat. It’s called McQueen,” I tell him as I draw some stylized waves.
Henry frowns. “Like Lightning McQueen?”
I glance around helplessly, having no idea what the kid’s referring to.
“Lighting McQueen is a racing car in an animated children’s film calledCars,“ Neve says quietly from behind me.
Her voice is soft and melodic, slightly hesitant, and sexy as hell. It makes me wonder how she’ll sound in the throes of passion.
Fuck.Time and place, Oz.
