jumped up. “I hate who I am! I hate that I don’t have normal hands like every other kid! Why was I born this way?”
Battling tears, he ran down the hall. Seconds later, his bedroom door slammed hard enough to slip the pictures on the walls. The kittens wrestling with the mat wobbled hurriedly to their mother’s comforting body.
“Mommy?”
Emily slid from her chair and came around the table. Wrapping her arms around Rianne’s neck, she straddled her lap and hugged her close.
“It’s okay, honey.” Rianne stroked the child’s hair. “Sam’s just upset about what happened today.”
“Will we have to move away?”
Her heart constricted. “No. Sam likes it here, and so do you. This is only a little bump in the road.” She hoped.
“Then why did he say those things about his hand?”
“Because he’s hurting right now.”
“That boy wasn’t nice,” Emily murmured.
“Some people aren’t.” Life fact number one.
A hush fell. Sweetpea purred reassuringly to her family. Emily snuggled closer. “Mr. Tucker wouldn’t say those things.”
“He doesn’t have a disease. He has an individual hand, is all.” No, Jon would never hurt Sam. Jon was a man. Not a coward.
A good man.
A decent man.
A man—two hundred dollars be damned—she could fall for. If she was interested. Which I’m not.
She kissed Emily’s hair. “Let’s scrounge up some supper.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweets?”
“I think Mr. Tucker would beat that kid up, don’t you?”
Rianne cupped her child’s face and willed the kink in her stomach to loosen. “Emily, Jon would not lay a finger on Cody Huller. Ever.” Perhaps her certainty had to do with what had happened more than twenty years ago with Gene Hyde.
The corners of Emily’s mouth lifted. “Me, either. Not really.” She settled a cheek against Rianne. “I like it when he calls me Bo Peep,” she said shyly.
Rianne gave her a hard hug. “I do, too, sweetheart.”
“He’s nice.”
“Mmm.” And handsome. And kindhearted. And… Oh, Rianne, do not go there.
The flashlight beam flickered a third time on the other side of the juniper border. Edging along the wall of his unlit kitchen, Jon felt the hair at the back of his neck climb.
Someone was in Rianne’s backyard.
He checked his wristwatch. Ten fifty-four. Who the hell was skulking around on a night swarthier than sin? On a Wednesday night, no less. A school night. Except for the dim wash of yellow in her kitchen window—the stove light he guessed—Rianne’s house had been dark since ten o’clock. Again, he checked the time. Two minutes.
Three.
He waited. Peered through the black pane. Five minutes.
Whoever it was hadn’t moved more than four feet, or lifted the flashlight higher than six inches off the ground.
Twenty years on the force spurred him into action. Silently, he went through his dark house to the front door. He’d ambush the bastard from her carport. Face to face.
Slipping into a pair of chewed-up sneakers, he went out the door, crept down the veranda steps. The day had closed with a bank of dirty, gray clouds; night prevailed in starless slumber.
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