Page 3 of Daddy’s Protecting

The bedraggled figure before him nodded as if resigned to her fate. Water dripped down her face to soak into herwet clothing. She wore a backpack strapped against her chest under her coat. Cynthia’s hands held the edges of her denim jacket pulled as far around the fabric carrier as they would go. He understood immediately that whatever she kept inside the canvas carrier was more important than anything else.

“He said you’d known each other for a long time and that you were the best legal mind he’d ever found. Easton didn’t promise me you’d help me,” she rushed to assure him.

“Come inside and get dry, Cynthia. We’ll talk and I promise I’ll tell you the truth.”

She nodded and stepped inside onto the rug. Her arms remained locked around her body, as if making herself the smallest target possible. “I’m sorry. I’m getting everything wet.”

“The carpet will dry. Come upstairs. I didn’t stop for towels. I’ll grab some from the hall closet.”

Dirk turned and led the way to the stairs. He turned back to see her standing rooted in the same place. “Cynthia. You’re safe. Easton wouldn’t have sent you anywhere that he didn’t have complete confidence in. Follow me, Little girl.”

Immediately, she stepped off the rug and walked forward.

Cynthia took several deep breaths,trying to calm her wildly beating heart. If turning herself into the police would be safe, she’d have gone there directly. But it wasn’t. He’d make sure she suffered before something happened to her.

She shrugged her shoulders as she walked up the stairs behind the handsome man before her. Focusing on the pristine carpet below her feet, she kept herself from studying his chiseled body. Cynthia was a bit rattled by his use of the term Little girl, but with no makeup on and dripping wet clothes, she knew shelooked pathetic. Gathering her tattered hope around her, she crossed her fingers.Please, let him help me. Please.

As they emerged into the bright light of the kitchen, she kept her eyes focused on the linoleum and the small puddle forming around her soaked tennis shoes. Cynthia watched his polished shoes come into focus as he approached. She jumped at the feel of his hand that cupped her chin, raising her gaze to meet his.

“You’re safe, Cynthia. We’re going to talk. I need you to promise to be honest and brave.”

She exhaled a gust of pent-up breath and nodded. “I promise.”

“Let me go get some towels. Take off your jacket and those wet shoes. I’ll put them in the dryer.”

Obediently, she toed off her shoes and shrugged out of the wet garment. Cynthia shivered slightly at the feel of the soggy denim against her thighs and lower legs. Wrapping her arms around her backpack, she ran her hands over the canvas to make sure that she’d protected her belongings. To her relief, the outside seemed completely dry. The contents should be fine.

“Here. Wrap this around your hair.” Dirk held a plush towel out to her and watched as she bent over to trap her hair under the makeshift turban.

The bag sagged away from her body and Cynthia stood immediately to scoop her hair up in the towel and awkwardly wind it around her head. “Thanks. That rain came down fast,” she murmured, looking back at the floor.

“Cynthia, I need you to look at me. When you avoid my gaze, I immediately suspect that you are lying. Everyone else will, too. You need to hold your head up and meet everyone’s eyes when they talk to you,” Dirk said with authority that immediately made her want to obey.

“Okay.” She struggled to keep her head up. Since the incident, Cynthia had hidden from everyone.

“Let me get you something to drink. What would you like?”

“Could I have chocolate milk?” she asked, surprising him. “It always makes my stomach feel better.”

“I think I can concoct some. Take a seat at the table. Have you been sick?” Dirk asked.

“When I’m worried or nervous, my stomach gets upset,” she explained before blurting, “I did it. You know… I loaded the virus into the computer at Edgewater Industries.”

“Why?”

“That’s a tough question to answer,” she evaded.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her before pulling a carton of milk and a bottle of chocolate syrup from the fridge.

She watched him create chocolate milk for her as if he’d done it a million times. The click of the spoon against the glass interrupted the silence that stretched between them. Cynthia swallowed hard.

“I don’t know how to explain.” She waved a hand around his beautifully designed and decorated home. “Have you ever not been in control of your life?”

He stopped stirring and looked at her in surprise before answering, “As a kid, certainly. As an adult, I don’t remember a time I’ve given someone power over my life.”

“I didn’t give someone control,” she corrected him snippily. “They took it and there wasn’t anything I could do.”

“Tell me about it,” he urged. “Have you eaten?”

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