needed to know what had happened in court that morning, too. Shawn Amos, Joy’s father and Cara’s husband, was supposed to have been indicted. And Chantel Fairbanks, a Santa Raquel detective and a member of the High Risk team that had been formed through The Lemonade Stand to help prevent domestic violence deaths, had put in a request for a meeting with the inmate before he was transported back to prison.
Chantel had wanted to speak with Shawn Amos, one on one, alone in a courthouse conference room, to see if she, a female alone, could get any more of a reaction out of him than any of the officers—both male and female—who’d questioned him repeatedly at the police station and in prison. But Joy came first. Edward had taken her to lunch.
“Not much to tell,” Edward said, looking at her, then back at his hands that were plastered together. “I took her to Uncle Bob’s.” A burger joint on the beach with an oversize sandbox. A favorite with most of the Santa Raquel kids Joy’s age. “When I asked her if she wanted to play in the sandbox, she shook her head...” His tired gaze settled on Lila and she couldn’t help but look for the light of quiet strength she’d come to associate with him. Finding it, she nodded at him to continue, clasping her own hands together to keep herself from reaching for him again.
“Did she hold your hand as you walked inside?” Lila asked. They’d been working on it all week. Edward holding out his hand to the little girl. Repeatedly. Hoping she’d take it.
He shook his head.
Joy went with Edward when she was told to do so. But she’d only ever spoken directly to him when she’d been defending Julie Fairbanks—a TLS volunteer whom Joy seemed to have adopted as a surrogate mother. She’d told him that he could not be her grandfather if he didn’t believe that Julie was the author of the children’s books Joy had clung to since arriving at the Stand.
Julie had penned—and drawn—the stories, but until Joy’s announcement, only the child and a few others had known that the twenty-nine-year-old philanthropist was also a successful author.
Until Julie worked with Joy, the little girl hadn’t spoken a word after she’d been brought to The Lemonade Stand. Julie, through Amy, the character in her books, had connected with the child enough for her to tell them that she’d witnessed her father beating her aunt and mother. That her mother had told her aunt to take Joy and run, and that the aunt had hidden with the child behind an old dog pen. From there, Joy had seen her father haul her mother away by her hair.
The aunt, Mary Amos, had then run with Joy to the neighbors for help, after which the woman had been rushed to the hospital where she’d later died.
Joy spoke to those caring for her at The Lemonade Stand now. She spoke to Julie and to Hunter, Edward’s nephew, fairly regularly, too. Spoke when spoken to. Or to make requests. But other than when she was at Edward’s and crying out for others, she never spoke to Edward.
“I ordered a burger and fries, and she ate every bite,” he said in the reserved way he had, taking his time.
Lila could see how strangers might see Edward as somewhat cold. And had no idea why she was so certain that a solid core of warmth ran deeply through him.
“That’s good, Edward.” Lila’s job was to help this family help the child, she reminded herself as she leaned forward, too, needing the widower to know he wasn’t alone. “If she wasn’t somewhat comfortable with you, she wouldn’t have a healthy appetite.”
“I took her to the toy store. I told her she could have anything she wanted.”
“Did she pick something?”
He shook his head again. “We walked every aisle.”
“That must have taken a long time.”
His grin made her heart leap. Because she needed so badly for this family to find healing. “Two hours,” he told her. “She touched a lot of things, studied some, but each time I asked her if she wanted it, she shook her head.”
“We don’t know what kind of conditioning she’s had,” Lila quickly pointed out, not wanting to let go of that smile. “Oftentimes, after an abuser has hurt his victim, he overcompensates by buying things.”
Edward nodded. “I know. I’ve read everything you’ve given me since Cara first went missing weeks ago. I just... I’ve never so much as frowned at Joy, so I didn’t think...surely children of abusers have others in their lives who buy them things just because they care about them.”
“Most do, of course. But until you win Joy’s trust, you aren’t, in her mind, in the category of those who care about her.”
He knew what they were dealing with. He, like everyone else caring for Joy, was in counseling with Sara Edwin, one of the Stand’s full-time counselors.
“When we got back here, I read to her. She sat next to me and watched as I turned the pages.”
“Amy books?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Lila nodded.
“I couldn’t bring myself to leave her.”
“Did she seem distressed, having you there?”
“No.”
“Then this is progress.”
His gaze was direct this time. “I know. But I fear that I’m being selfish, as well. If I’m staying because I can’t bear leaving, is it her I’m putting first, or myself?”
“The fact that you’re asking the question is your answer. You can’t help loving her, needing to be with her. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be good for her. Joy needs to know that there is someone who adores her, who will be there for her, no matter what. Someone who belongs to her. If you were forcing your presence on her when she showed signs of distress, that might be different.”
His smile was larger this time. Filled with the warmth that he didn’t often show—at least, not in the time she’d known him. She smiled back. It just came naturally.
And was something she did with others, too. So why did her heart suddenly feel such an acute stab of guilt? She was crossing a line that could not be crossed. Ever. With anyone. Anywhere.
“Have dinner with me.” His question intensified her guilt.
“I can’t.” She blurted the words. Completely unlike herself. Stared at him, afraid of what he might see within her.
“But I’ve got some wine and cheese in my suite here,” she said, effecting as much of her usual calm as she could muster. “I’m...staying here tonight...” she said—the truth, but she wasn’t staying because she had to. Only because she’d been planning to use the evening to catch up on the paperwork she’d just shoved aside on her desk.
“The wine—it can be tea, if you’d prefer—and I’ve got what’s left of a platter of meats and cheeses from a function earlier today. I’d been planning to indulge myself with it in lieu of dinner.”
She’d just invited a man to visit with her in her suite. What in the hell was happening to her?
Her suite at the Stand. Where she was always on call when she was in residence.
