Kendal’s frown deepened and, jumping up, she ran into the lounge, sending an anxious glance towards the video clock.
Fourteen thirty-three? Jarrad was right! So where in the world was Matthew? Valerie? She was already over half an hour late!
Kendal felt the tension building with the fear inside her. Had she had an accident? The woman was a mother herself—highly recommended by another young mum Kendal had worked with—and was nothing if not reliable. ‘She’s never, never been late…!’
‘Never except today.’ She hadn’t realised she had spoken aloud until she heard that harsh, sceptical drawl from the doorway, and she swung round, green eyes ablaze.
‘I suppose you think I arranged this deliberately just to antagonise you?’ Anxiety made her snap as she brushed past him, heading straight for the phone on the table.
‘To antagonise me, perhaps not,’ he accepted. ‘To stop me seeing my son, I wouldn’t, however, put anything past you.’
She ignored his remark, tapping out the number of her child minder’s home just as the front doorbell rang.
‘So she’s condescended to bring him back!’ Jarrad’s mood was black as he strode out of the room, taking it on himself to answer the door.
‘Mr Mitchell?’ It was a man’s voice, cold, very official, drifting along the hallway, and Kendal dropped the phone, feeling the grip of icy fingers around her heart.
‘Yes.’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Already she was at the door beside Jarrad, facing the young policeman—and the policewoman—standing there, looking serious, on the doorstep. ‘There’s been an accident!’ Oh, God…!’
‘No, Mrs Mitchell.’ The man looked at her gravely. ‘It is Mrs Mitchell, isn’t it?’
Numbly, she could only nod.
‘For heaven’s sake, get on with it, man!’ Jarrad prompted impatiently, looking grim yet in command too, still in control, even in this situation.
The policeman visibly tensed, obviously recognising the authority in the older man, though his training wouldn’t allow him to be browbeaten. ‘Do you think we could come in, sir?’ he said, with the sort of deference everyone paid to Jarrad Mitchell.
And then, somehow—Kendal wasn’t sure how—they were sitting in the lounge, and all she was aware of was Jarrad standing there beside her, his hard, clipped voice demanding, ‘Well? Are you going to tell me what’s happened to my son?’
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