the room, she scrolled through songs until she found the lullaby she wanted—soft, soothing.
“...and Bonnie pays for my services,” she added. Occasionally she took on private clients, but she made most of her money from the clinic, which used her services on behalf of its young patients. Shelter Valley schools called her in on occasion. And she got the weekly stipend from Little Spirits, too, but only because Bonnie wouldn’t let her work there without pay. Lillie had more than one client that she’d helped on a pro bono basis. And that was nobody’s business.
Turned out Jerry Henderson, Kirk’s father, had had different ideas than his son regarding Kirk’s mistress, Leah. And Lillie, Kirk’s wife. Lillie’s divorce settlement had been generous.
Which was nobody’s business, either.
Lillie could hear voices at the end of the hall. It sounded like Bailey’s mother.
“I have to go right now, Mr. Swartz. But I’d love to talk more if you’re interested.”
“I’ll be at the university in the morning,” he said. “I have a break between classes from nine until ten. We could meet there if you’re free.”
She had a procedure at the clinic at eight. And another, a PICC change for a little preemie who’d been released from a hospital in Tucson, at ten-thirty. “I’ll do my best,” she told him. She could make the date if the procedure at eight happened on time and without problems, and if she left the university by a quarter to ten.
Arranging to meet him outside the student center at nine, or to call him if she couldn’t, Lillie shoved her phone into the pocket of her rainbow-colored scrub top just as an extremely frightened-looking blonde sprite came hesitantly around the corner.
A genuine smile on her face, Lillie moved toward the girl and took Bailey’s small hand in hers. She spent the next half hour engrossed in the six-year-old’s trauma and doing everything she could to make the experience better for her.
Bailey made it through without shedding a tear.
CHAPTER THREE
“GOGGLES ON,” JON said as he stood back from the apparatus he and his lab partner, Mark Heber, had just built inside a safety-glass room at Montford University. If all went well they would soon know how quickly glass would craze when set five feet from a fire started by nail polish remover, and if, in the same amount of time, the same type of standard window glass would craze from a ten-foot distance.
“On,” Mark said, grinning as he joined Jon. “Light the fuse.”
Shaking his head, Jon motioned toward the long piece of fuse protruding from the puddle of accelerant. “It’s your turn,” Jon said.
A little more than halfway through the semester, the two “old men,” as they’d been dubbed in the freshman chemistry lab, had gained a bit of a reputation for the ingenuity, scale and success of their experiments. Jon’s lab partner, Mark, who’d worked as a forensics safety engineer for years without the title, and who was now in school to get the degree that would allow him to officially work in the field, deserved most of the credit.
Mark stepped forward, lit the fuse and ducked as a whorl of flame exploded from the puddle, bursting in front of them.
“Whoops.” Mark wasn’t smiling.
“Guess our calculations were a little off on this one.”
“The velocity of the fire was greater than we’d calculated for the amount of polish remover,” Mark said.
Straight-faced, they looked each other over.
“No singeing,” Jon declared.
“Make a note that idiots should not be allowed to play with fire,” Mark said as they stood, watching their piece of window as the fire burned down.
On the upside, the glass at the five-foot distance crazed—bearing spiderweb-type cracks that would allow arson investigators to determine that the fire had been set by an accelerant and that the glass had been close. The point of their experiment was to help arson investigators determine how long the fire had burned.
The glass at ten feet did not craze.
Another correct prediction.
“Nice experiment, gentlemen.” Professor Wood came up behind them. Several students had found their way to the room at the back of the lab to take a peek.
“A little less velocity,” Jon said, “and we’d have been perfect.”
“At least it didn’t burn out of the controlled area, or burn anything other than the intended substance,” Mark added.
Professor Wood nodded and, without another word, turned and left. “I’ll bet he’ll have some choice words for us when he tells his wife about this one,” Jon said.
“Is he married?”
“Hell if I know.”
Marriage wasn’t something he thought a lot about. Didn’t spend much time thinking about women at all these days. Or he hadn’t until the past twenty-four hours.
“Abe threw another fit yesterday at the day care,” he offered casually as he and his lab partner set to work cleaning up the mess they’d just created. He had half an hour before he was supposed to meet up with Lillie Henderson to find out what she had to say about his son.
“Yesterday was Thursday.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought he only threw fits on Saturdays. When you went to work instead of school.”
Jon had told Mark about the first fit. More than a month before. At work at the cactus jelly plant outside town where Mark, a supervisor, had gotten Jon a job as a janitor. They’d been having lunch.
He hadn’t seen Mark much at the plant since then. After one of the plant’s machines had broken down and Jon had been able to repair it and get it back up in time to make shipment, he’d been promoted to maintenance engineer. A fancy title for a guy who could fix things.
“That theory, that his tantrums were the result of an extra day of day care, proved to be false,” Jon admitted.
Frowning, Mark sprayed water on the metal piece that had held the puddle of accelerant. “You didn’t mention that you’re having more problems with him.”
Jon shook his head and, with gloved hands, lifted the crazed glass and put it in the trash receptacle. “I’m not,” he said. “Doc says it’s just the terrible twos, and from what I’ve read, we’re getting through it a lot easier than some.”
The room was half-clean. He had another fifteen minutes before he had to leave.
He’d pulled on his nicer pair of black jeans that morning and had been thinking about looking responsible, respectable, as he’d buttoned up the oxford shirt and rolled the cuffs to just below his elbows.
“He’s never had a problem when you leave him with us,” Mark pointed out. The thirty-year-old, together
