On Thursday, December thirty-first, Devin adjusted his tie and smoothed his jacket, then crossed his legs and glanced across the windowless courtroom to his adversaries at the opposite table. Lara and Connor O’Hara sat beside their lawyer, Franklin Blythe.
Devin smiled as he lowered his gaze. He could not understand why a woman as clever as Lara Godfrey had selected a semiretired nobody from Roanoke to represent her, but apparently they had religion in common. Nadine’s background report stated that Blythe was a deacon in his Baptist church and well-known for philanthropy in the Roanoke area. Do-gooders, Devin knew, tended to flock together.
His lawyer, Madison Jarvis, had moved heaven and earth to schedule this pretrial hearing before the start of the new year. He and Sloane hoped to use this opportunity to petition for custody and establish a high bond for the flighty Mrs. O’Hara. In Jarvis’s best-case scenario, Devin would gain full and immediate custody of the child; in the worst-case script Sloane would be allowed to visit the boy in foster care and establish a relationship. Jarvis had warned Devin that anything could happen in Judge Harold Weaver’s courtroom, but Devin couldn’t help but feel certain that the judge would see things his way.
A polished brass railing transected the courtroom, dividing the noisy spectators from the participants. The bailiff called the unruly crowd to order, and Devin stood with the others as the judge entered and took a seat behind a high mahogany bench that must have cost the taxpayers a pretty penny. Weaver was a good-sized man, wide through the torso, with a neck so thick that his head appeared to rest directly on his shoulders. His face, though, was serious and dedicated. He looked at the uncommon scene before him with eyes as hard as dried leather.
Devin coolly met Weaver’s steady gaze. After making subtle inquiries about the judge’s aspirations and tastes, he had learned that Harold Weaver was an unambitious man, as content to serve this court as he was to live in the modest house he and his wife had purchased as newlyweds. Rumor had it that Weaver was immune to bribery and only a fool would try to buy him. But every man had his price.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the media,” the judge began with no preamble, “let me assure you that this is a court of law, not a soap opera. You will remain silent in my courtroom and you will mind your manners. Any reporter causing a disturbance during this hearing will be dismissed and barred from attending any further proceedings.”
The threat blanketed the spectator’s gallery with an immediate stillness. Devin smiled in a silence that felt like the holding of a hundred breaths.
As the courtroom ritual began in earnest, he crossed his legs and made a note on his legal pad. Nadine had completed a background check on Weaver, but he’d have Trent prod her to see if anything had changed in the last few days. By the time the trial began, he wanted to know Harold Weaver’s darkest secrets.
“We are here”—the judge folded his hands—“to resolve two particular issues before this case can go to trial. First is the matter of the child’s immediate custody, and second is the matter of bond for Mrs. O’Hara.” He shifted his gaze toward Devin’s table. “I’ll hear from the plaintiff ’s attorney first.”
Jarvis stood and buttoned his jacket, then moved out from behind the desk to make his statement. “This case, Your Honor,” he said, looking up at the judge over his reading glasses, “is a simple matter of broken faith. We have a contract between these two parties, an agreement entered into in mutual good faith, which the second party, Ms. Lara Godfrey O’Hara, has chosen to ignore. Under the terms of the surrogate agreement, Mrs. O’Hara agreed to bear a child for Mr. Devin Sloane. When the child was born, not only did she refuse to honor a legal contract, but she took the child—Mr. Sloane’s son—and ran to Florida.”
Madison pulled a copy of the surrogate contract from his portfolio and handed it to the judge. “The laws of this state, Your Honor, are clear. Payment can be made to a surrogate for living expenses, and genetic parents are recognized as biological parents. Mrs. O’Hara’s lawyer may try to tell you she believed the child to be the result of insemination with her late husband’s sperm, but we will provide testimony to prove she knew the child was not her husband’s. She knowingly, willingly, flagrantly took the infant and fled the jurisdiction of this commonwealth, fully intending to keep Mr. Sloane from his own son.”
The judge frowned as he flipped through the contract. “What compensation did Mrs. O’Hara receive for carrying the child?”
Madison clasped his hands. “She received full medical care, as well as access to one of the best genetic laboratories in the country. More important, she knew full well that the Muriel Foundation, headed by Mr. Sloane, had agreed to contribute in excess of one million dollars to the genetics research program at the University of Virginia. In accordance with the laws of this commonwealth, she was not paid for her role, but we can provide witnesses to prove she knew about and appreciated Sloane’s contribution in exchange for her participation in the surrogate arrangement.”
Jarvis shifted his weight. “In summary, Your Honor, we would like to ask that the child’s custody be immediately awarded to Mr. Sloane until the trial resolves this matter permanently. Mr. Sloane has missed the first five years of his son’s life. He does not deserve to miss another day.”
The judge transferred his gaze to the defendant’s table. “Are you ready with your statement, Mr. Blythe?”
The portly lawyer rose. “Yes, Your Honor. I would first like to say that Lara Godfrey O’Hara is not the guilty party here; she is a victim of the most flagrant kind of injustice. There was no surrogate agreement, and until the day the child was born she believed the child was her husband’s. The document in your hand was written after the insemination and over Mrs. O’Hara’s signature. There is no evidence to suggest that the child in question is the legitimate offspring of Devin Sloane, thus my client never intended to deliver her child to him. She did, however, discover a plot to deprive her of her son, so she fled for her own safety. In the five years she lived in Florida she has established a solid reputation as a loving and nurturing mother.”
The lawyer glanced at Sloane for a moment, then returned his gaze to the judge. “Sir, we would ask that during this pretrial period the child remain with the mother he has always known and loved.”
The judge skimmed the surrogate agreement again, his face darkening with unreadable emotions. Finally he set the document aside and looked to the defendant’s table. “Your fault, Mrs. O’Hara, lies in not approaching the authorities five years ago. Because you have proven yourself a flight risk, the court shall require you to report to an officer of the court every morning until the trial. You must not leave the city until after this case is resolved.”
A cold knot formed in Devin’s stomach as the judge turned to him. “Mr. Sloane, if this document is genuine, I can sympathize with your desire to have custody of your son. Children, however, are not property, and they cannot be treated as such. At five years old, this boy will not benefit by being taken from the only parent he has ever known. I am therefore denying your motion for temporary custody.”
Devin settled back, disappointed, but his spirits lifted when the judge looked again to the defendant’s table. “Mrs. O’Hara, in family law, the judicial system must not only consider the rights of the two opposing parties, but also of the child. I am therefore appointing a guardian ad litem to represent the best interests of the boy who shall be known simply as ‘Hunter.’ Someone will be contacting you within a few days, and I must remind you that he or she will represent the full authority of this court. You must offer your full cooperation and allow the guardian ad litem to visit.”
From the corner of his eye, Devin saw Lara O’Hara nod slowly.
“I will not require a bond for you, Mrs. O’Hara,” the judge continued, folding his hands. “But if you leave the city for any reason you will be considered in contempt of this court. In other words”—he lowered his voice—“if we have to come looking for you, you’ll be arrested when we find you. If you take the boy beyond the city limits, you’ll face criminal charges for kidnapping. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Her voice was a thin whisper in the cavernous room.
“Then I wish you all a good day.” The judge banged the desk once with his gavel, then stood and exited through the oak door through which he’d come.
The courtroom erupted into sound as Devin turned to his lawyer. “Not exactly what we had hoped for,” he said, struggling to maintain an even, pleasant tone, “but not bad. And now we have time to work.”
Jarvis frowned as he shoved a portfolio into his briefcase. “I had hoped he’d see things our way. The situation would be much improved if we had access to the boy. We could show familial affection and demonstrate how you’ve provided for him.”
“I’m not worried.” Devin crossed his arms and gave the lawyer a small smile. “I’ll set Nadine on the matter of the guardian.”
Jarvis’s eyes hardened. “The guardian ad litem is supposed to be an impartial third party.”
Devin stood and grasped his lawyer’s arm, then smiled at a waving photographer. “We’ll make sure this guardian is as impartial as the grave.”
In the silence of his bedroom, Helmut Braun lay curled in a ball, watching the glowing red numerals on his digital clock. The minutes passed, one indistinguishable from another as they slipped into eternity. He had been lying on his bed since the six o’clock news ended, his thoughts too loud and turbulent to allow any measure of rest.
The red numerals shifted and Helmut closed his eyes, a shiver spreading over him as he remembered the newscast. The mannequinlike anchorwoman had announced that Devin Sloane had suffered a major setback in his civil trial against Lara Godfrey O’Hara. The judge had ruled that the child would remain with the mother until the trial’s conclusion.
The newscast had switched to footage of the mob outside the courthouse, where the camera zoomed in on Lara’s face. She had changed in the last five years; her hair was dark now, and shorter, but Helmut would know those direct, honest eyes anywhere. Two men walked by her side, probably her lawyer and her new husband.
A confusing rush of anticipation and dread whirled inside Helmut as a news reporter shouted a question at Lara.
“We are not giving up,” she said, her voice unsteady and thick. “We are confident the truth will come out. My son belongs to me, not to Devin Sloane.”
The truth will come out. And when it did, the world would know Helmut Braun as a fiend and a fraud.
He listened to the rest of the report with rising dismay. Lara Godfrey O’Hara had won a battle today, but experts were already predicting a victory for Devin Sloane. Judge Weaver had a solid record of deciding in the best material interest of the child, ruling for the parent with the greatest means of financial support in 95 percent of his cases. The court would appoint a guardian ad litem for the boy, and any questions of what was best for the child would be settled by negotiations between the guardian and the judge. The trial was scheduled to begin in two months.
The camera drew in for a tight shot of a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair. “The court has just appointed Karyn Gower as guardian ad litem for the child,” the reporter explained in a voice-over. “Ms. Gower is a social worker employed by the city of Charlottesville. Over the next eight weeks, she will evaluate the child and his current living conditions, then present a recommendation to the judge. Though no one doubts that Mrs. O’Hara loves her son, neither can anyone deny that he would enjoy an exceptional lifestyle if permitted to reside with Mr. Sloane.”
Helmut closed his eyes and clicked the television off. The burning rock of guilt in the pit of his gut would not go away. The fates of Lara Godfrey and her son would rest with the courts, but Sloane would call on Helmut to testify, to repeat the lies that had burdened his soul for more than six years.
He brought his knees closer to his chest, his vision gloomily colored with the memory of Lara in his office, her eyes bright with hope and longing for her husband’s child. He had taken her trust and twisted it; he had allowed his own desire for knowledge, reputation, and success to subvert his ideals. Distracted and tempted by Devin Sloane, he had sold Lara’s son for a research grant. Since then, he had deceived and dissembled in every area of his life, losing his wife, his friends, and his self-respect. He had spoken his lies so often and so convincingly that the world accepted them as truth.
He pressed his hand to his face as grief welled in him, black and cold. What a failure! He had not even managed to be a very good liar. He had failed even in his deception, and soon Sloane would realize how completely Helmut had deceived him. Once he did, Helmut’s life would be worthless.
He realized he was crying only when he tasted salt at the corners of his mouth. He sat up, dashed the useless tears away, and opened the drawer of his nightstand. The .357 Magnum lay on top of a pile of assorted papers, and he gently placed the gun on the table, then rummaged through envelopes and ads and note pads until he found the small tape recorder.
He had bought both the gun and the recorder for unexpected revelations. He had never had an occasion to use the revolver, but several times he had pulled out the recorder as ideas came to him in that fertile time of half sleep. Unfortunately, all too often the ideas he thought brilliant at two a.m. seemed inconsequential and trite in the stark morning light.
He pressed the eject button, checked the microcassette, then inserted it again, closing the mechanism with an emphatic click. He knew the batteries were good; he’d replaced them last week.
While outside his neighbors celebrated the dawning of a new year with bottle rockets and firecrackers, Helmut pressed the record button and recited the story of his fruitless life—true and unabridged, beginning with the moment he met Devin Sloane and continuing until the present hour. When he had finished, he told Olivia he loved her, then pressed the stop button.
He pulled himself from the bed, then moved to his desk and slid an envelope from a drawer. After writing Olivia’s name and the clinic address in block letters, he affixed a stamp, then sealed the microcassette inside.
He moved to his closet and shoved his weary feet into a pair of loafers. Moving with a quiet tread, he opened the front door and walked to the mailbox. The letter wouldn’t be picked up until Saturday, but that would be soon enough.
When he returned, Helmut locked the front door, kicked his shoes off in the foyer, and made his way back to the bedroom.
He looked again at the clock, ready to mark the moment of completion. He had come into the world at 6:15 a.m. on a January 15, and at some moment around 11:39 p.m., on December 31, he would leave it. He couldn’t say he had lived well or honorably, but in this last hour he had done what he could to set things right. Perhaps, like everything else in his life, it would not be enough.
He lay down on the bed, felt the familiar touch of his pillow, then turned and saw the Smith and Wesson gleaming in the moonlight. He picked up the gun and rubbed its cold body against his cheek. The gun was a favorite of highway patrolmen who liked to blow holes in fleeing vehicles.
Helmut settled the gun in his right hand, then pressed its body against a throat that ached with regret.
So many lies. So much promise, wasted. So sorry.
He swallowed, felt the muzzle move against the soft skin under his chin, then pulled the trigger.
“Hold my calls, will you, Gaynel?” Olivia Densen glanced at the envelope in her hand with dismay. The handwriting was Helmut’s, and through the paper she could feel the edges of a microcassette. It could contain anything from another weepy apology to a copy of his latest lecture, but she didn’t want to be interrupted while she listened.
She checked her watch. Ten o’clock. She had only an hour to get to the hospital, where she had a biopsy scheduled for eleven thirty. Dr. Stock and Maria Kremkau, the physician’s assistant, were handling patient appointments, so she could let the tape play while she cleared her desk.
She sank into her leather office chair, pulled her recorder from a desk drawer, and popped the cassette into the machine. She picked up another letter as the tape began to play, but something in Helmut’s tone alarmed her. His usually robust voice seemed weary and fragile, as if he had suffered through hours of weeping.
What had happened?
She parked her chin in her hand and felt the nauseated sinking of despair as Helmut clarified and explained the events of the past years. At the end of his soliloquy, when he whispered that he loved her, Olivia closed her eyes.
Helmut was not the monster she had imagined. He had been too weak to resist Devin Sloane, but perhaps she could support him now . . . if it wasn’t too late.
She dialed Helmut’s lab and twisted the cord as the phone rang. A research assistant answered and said that Dr. Braun had not yet arrived.
Olivia disconnected the call and dialed Helmut’s apartment. Again the phone rang. For no reason she could name, the sound of the persistent ringing raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
She hung up, then dialed 911 and spoke with the professional sense of detachment that always accompanied her awareness of impending disaster. “This is Dr. Olivia Densen. Will you please send paramedics to 397 Court Street?”
“What is the nature of the emergency, Doctor?”
“I’m not certain.” Her voice drifted into a hushed whisper. “But please hurry.”
She dropped the phone back into its cradle, then pressed her fingertips to her lips, afraid of what the paramedics would find. Helmut had never been strong, and Lara’s reappearance had flushed old sins and secrets to the surface.
Helmut, she knew, had called it quits.
Cold, clear reality swept over her in a wave so powerful it stole her breath. She had heard the popping sounds of firecrackers on the tape; he must have recorded it on New Year’s Eve, right after Lara’s pretrial hearing. Three and a half days ago.
A suffocating sensation tightened her throat. If he had taken pills or cut his wrists she might have been able to save him . . . but not now.
Trembling, she picked up her purse and stood; then her gaze fell upon the tape in the recorder. Lara would need that tape. It was priceless, for it had been wrung from the life of a dear man with more heart than strength.
Olivia pulled the cassette from the recorder and tapped it against her fingers. Once Helmut’s death was made public, Devin Sloane might search for a last letter or some other form of communication. He might check Lara’s mail—or her attorney’s.
So who could she entrust with this tape? The neighbor was now Lara’s husband, so he was no longer an option. Lara had no other family, except for the mother-in-law . . .
She pulled out a phone book and copied Eva Godfrey’s name and address onto a padded manila envelope. After jotting a quick note on a clinic memo pad, she dropped the note and the tape into the package. Before leaving the office, she asked Carol to mail the envelope and cancel her afternoon appointments.
Carol nodded, her eyes wide and curious, but Olivia pushed through the double doors and strode into the rising wind, knowing full well what she’d find when she reached Helmut’s apartment.
Olivia bid farewell to her last patient, recorded her notes for the tran-scriptionist, and nodded at Gaynel as the nurse locked the front doors. An almost tangible pall had hung over the office ever since the news of Helmut’s suicide, but in her work Olivia found a mindless routine that helped camouflage the despair of grief. If she paused to dwell on what might have been, she’d drown in a tide of regret and loss.
She moved into her office and slumped into her chair, then swiveled to face a mound of reports and patient files. Her eyes burned from sleeplessness; her muscles screamed from the strain of unrelenting tension. She had spent Monday evening poring over Helmut’s personal records, searching for some indication of his funeral wishes; she’d spent Tuesday with her lawyer, a police investigator, and a funeral director. She had said nothing to the cop about Helmut’s taped confession—according to Helmut, Sloane’s influence extended far and wide, and she didn’t want the tape to end up in his hands. Carol had mailed the tape on Monday; with any luck, Eva Godfrey would receive it Tuesday or Wednesday and deliver it to Lara.
Olivia picked up a patient file and skimmed it, then dropped it back to the stack, her concentration dissipating in a mist of fatigue. She’d spent a full day in the office, grateful for the opportunity to think about something besides her own misery. Today she had sealed off all thoughts of Helmut, his anguish, and their failed marriage, but those thoughts were banging on her brain now, demanding an audience.
She stood and swiped her hand through her hair, then picked up her purse and moved toward the front desk. Carol and Maria had gone home, but Gaynel, Sharon, and Rita were pulling the files of patients scheduled for the next morning. They’d understand if she left early. The entire office staff had tiptoed around her all day, scarcely mentioning Helmut but telegraphing their compassion with every guarded glance and sad smile.
Olivia stopped at the desk and leaned over the front counter. “I’m going home. If anything comes up, Dr. Stock has agreed to take my cases.” She closed her eyes, mentally running through her list of OB patients near delivery. “It should be a quiet night—”
An odd flapping sound broke her concentration. She turned as a big man, tall and wide-shouldered, walked in from the back hallway. His black trench coat slapped against his jeans as he strode into the lobby.
“Excuse me?” Olivia asked, irritated by the current of anxiety racing through her. “Can we help you?” She frowned as a particular realization struck her—how had he come in? The back door was always locked.
Gaynel recovered next. “This office is closed,” she snapped, her voice sharp with disbelief.
The man lifted his head and met Olivia’s gaze. Ignoring the note of disapproval in Gaynel’s voice, he gave Olivia a dry smile.
“Good evening, ladies,” he drawled, reaching into his coat pocket. With one hand he pulled out a stack of brochures. “I was wonderin’ if you’d let me leave a few of these papers in your lobby.”
Olivia glanced at the brochures and recognized the logo of a radical antiabortion organization. “I’m sorry, but we have a policy against political literature in the lobby.”
“That’s too bad.” The man stopped six feet from the desk, then flung the brochures across the circle of seats in the waiting room. They fluttered like frightened birds, lighting on chairs and carpet and the photograph album filled with Polaroids of Olivia posing with newly delivered babies.
Terror lodged in Olivia’s throat as the smile vanished from the stranger’s face, leaving him ghostly and grim under the fluorescent lights. Without another word, he pulled a gun from a slit in his raincoat and trained it on the women.
One corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile. “Sorry about this.”
Olivia opened her mouth to scream, but the man shifted his stance, pulled the gun into both hands, and began firing. She suddenly thought of a firefighter spraying the room with a water hose, but there was no fire, only pain that seared her chest and arms and throat as the scent of acrid gunpowder filled her nostrils.
Olivia reached out, felt carpeting under her fingertips, and wondered who would feed her cats.
Then the world went soft and black.
Franklin Blythe stopped by the town house Thursday morning to see how Lara was taking the news. She had risen early and switched on the television, only to hear that the bodies of four women—Dr. Olivia Densen, Gaynel Sheridan, Sharon Swensen, and Rita Gordon—had been discovered at the Women’s Medical Clinic at ten p.m. the previous evening. According to police, Sharon’s husband had gone out searching for his wife, peered through the locked glass doors, and discovered the grisly scene.
When Franklin arrived, Lara was still in her pajamas, sitting on the floor before the TV with a cold cup of coffee in her hand. Connor answered the door and let the lawyer in.
Lara heard the soft whoosh of the couch cushions as Franklin sat down, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the television.
“They say,” she began, her voice trembling, “that they were cut down by a radical antiabortionist because the cops found pro-life leaflets scattered around the room. But that’s impossible, because Olivia didn’t perform elective abortions, and neither did Dr. Stock. All the pro-life people in town knew her position.”
“That theory is going up in smoke even now.” Franklin spoke in a hushed voice. “This morning I talked to a detective who said the scene looks too clean for an amateur. The front doors were locked tight, and there was no sign of forced entry. So someone either allowed this guy into the building, or he opened the door electronically—and that would require high-tech equipment.”
Beset by a tumble of confused thoughts and feelings, Lara turned. “Someone could do that?”
“Professionals can do nearly anything these days.” Connor came into the living room, and Franklin waved away the cup of coffee that he offered. “Coming so soon after Helmut Braun’s death, I can’t help but think the two events are related.”
Lara stared at the lawyer. “You think this horrible thing had something to do with me?”
He nodded, a faint line between his brows. “Unfortunately, I do. This terrible event has wiped out four witnesses who might have testified on your behalf.”
Lara stared at Franklin in a paralysis of astonishment. She did not doubt that Devin Sloane was capable of evil, but would he murder four people in order to take her child? A chill struck deep in the pit of her stomach as that thought brought another in its wake. “Merciful heavens. What’s to prevent him from killing me?”
“You’re too obvious a target.” Franklin squeezed Lara’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear, we’re going to get your family through this. Sloane may think he has the upper hand, but his sins will find him out.”
Lara drew her knees to her chest as a flash of wild grief ripped through her heart. She closed her eyes, resisting the flood of tears that burned the back of her eyelids, then felt Connor’s strong arms pulling her toward him. She curled tighter, letting him shelter her, and wept.
After a long moment, she heard Connor’s voice, deep and husky. “We’ll be okay, Franklin. Keep us informed, will you? I’m still on vacation, so I’ll be here to keep an eye on things.”
“A good idea, son.” Lara heard Franklin stand and make his way to the door, but Connor stayed beside her, his arms around her shoulders, one hand resting protectively on her head. Surrendering to the pull of grief, she threw her arms around his neck and freely vented her fear and sorrow.
For Lara, the next week passed in a blur of tears. Hunter seemed confused by her mournful mood, so he spent most of his time with Connor, diving into his new role as “Daddy’s boy” with a glee that ordinarily would have made Lara jealous. She could find no place for jealousy, however, when her heart had been consumed by fear.
To make matters worse, several members of the media set up camp in front of the house. When they crowded the front porch and tried to peer through the bedroom windows, Connor called the police, who warned the nosy reporters to stay off private property. The reporters pulled away from the town house, but since the park across the street was public property, they loitered there at all hours in hopes of catching a glimpse of Hunter or Lara.
And so Lara’s small family remained housebound and tried to keep from getting on each other’s nerves. Lara felt the most sorry for her son, who could not go outside and play. Connor and Hunter spent hours playing educational games and creating computer art, but the time of isolation was beginning to fray Lara’s nerves.
On Thursday morning she received a call from Judge Weaver’s law clerk. Karyn Gower, the court-appointed guardian ad litem, planned to stop by the house that morning for an interview with Hunter. Lara’s nerves tensed immediately, but Connor assured her he’d remain in the kitchen while Ms. Gower conducted the interview. If the woman made a move toward the door with Hunter, he’d stop her.
The doorbell chimed precisely at eleven. Lara rose from the couch, smoothed her slacks, and tried to fix a smile on her face. For Hunter’s sake, she had to appear confident, competent, and rational, as perfect a mother as she could be without seeming false.
Gathering her courage, she opened the door. A young woman stood on the porch, a pouchlike purse hanging from her shoulder and a friendly smile on her lips. A bandanna-print headband held back the wealth of long, dark hair that spilled over her peasant blouse.
Peering through dark granny glasses, she extended her hand to Lara, introduced herself as Karyn Gower, then looked down. Hunter had wedged himself into the space between Lara’s leg and the door frame. He eyed their visitor with a critical squint.
“Hello, Hunter.” Karyn grinned. “I’m so glad to meet you.”
Hunter ducked and clung to Lara’s leg.
“Sorry.” Lara smiled an apology. “He’s not always comfortable around strangers.”
“I can imagine.” The woman gave Lara an understanding look, then lifted her chin. “Can I come in? Hunter can remain with us if he’d like.”
Lara opened the door and let the woman in, her anxiety easing somewhat. Karyn Gower was nothing like the stiff, formal social worker of her imagination. She had expected someone with hair twisted in a schoolmarm’s bun, perhaps with a clipboard under her arm, ready to record every infraction of a parenting rule. Karyn Gower, however, seemed completely at ease in her role, even slipping out of her low pumps as she settled into the couch.
Lara took the opposite end of the sofa and turned to face the woman. “How can I help you, Ms. Gower?”
“Call me Karyn. I don’t believe in formality.”
“All right.” Hunter came to stand by Lara’s side, then leaned into the couch. Lara slipped her arm around her son and lovingly patted his belly. “Hunter may seem a little shy at first. I suppose he’s like any other five-year-old, quiet one minute and a wild man the next.”
Leaning toward Hunter, Karyn rested her elbows on her knees, then propped her chin on her hand. “I like kids; that’s why I signed on to be a guardian ad litem. I have a little brother myself.”
Hunter blinked, his features hardening in a stare of disapproval. “No, you don’t.”
Lara felt a cold panic creep between her shoulder blades and prickle down her spine. What was Hunter doing? This wasn’t the time to expose his gift. She couldn’t let this woman think Hunter anything but an ordinary little boy who needed to be with his mother.
Karyn laughed. “How do you know I don’t have a brother?”
“I just know.” Hunter thrust his hands in his pockets and nestled closer to Lara. “You’re lying.”
“He’s, ah, quite a little prophet.” Lara stumbled over the words. “You know how some parents are embarrassed when their children tell lies? I’m sometimes embarrassed when my son tells the truth. He’s always catching people in little white lies—you know, about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Hunter doesn’t much like to play games.”
“That’s not true, Mom.” Hunter’s lower lip edged forward in a pout. “I like Chutes and Ladders and Candyland and playing with Connor.”
“I know you do, buddy.” She turned her son toward the kitchen and patted his fanny. “Why don’t you go see if Connor will play with you now?”
She held her breath, afraid either Hunter or Karyn would protest, but Hunter canted away with the peculiar bent-foot gait he’d adopted ever since leaving Florida.
Lara shifted her gaze to find Karyn studying her with a curious intensity.
“I don’t want you to think we don’t allow Hunter to pretend or play games.” Words sprang to her lips in a mad rush. “We do. In fact, his preschool teacher in Florida always commented on Hunter’s sweet nature. He plays well with us and other children; he’s really a happy child.”
“Relax, Mrs. O’Hara.” Karyn set her lips in a straight line. “Was he limping? Has he hurt himself?”
“No, no, nothing like that. He’s been limping for a while, but I don’t think it’s anything serious. I took him to the pediatrician, who recommended a specialist, but the specialist is in Richmond, and I’m not allowed—” She broke off, suddenly aware that Karyn might recommend that Hunter be removed from Lara’s custody in order to receive medical treatment.
She gave the woman a confident smile. “I’m planning to take him to Richmond as soon as the trial is over. Our pediatrician seems to think it’s only a phase. Sometimes Hunter walks hunched over like Curious George, the chimpanzee. There’s nothing wrong; it’s just something he wants to do.”
Karyn nodded, then picked up her bulky purse and slipped the strap onto her shoulder. “Thanks very much for your time, Mrs. O’Hara. Hunter is a darling boy, and I’ll enjoy visiting with him for the next few weeks. Maybe next time he’ll be a little more willing to talk to me.”
Lara stood with the guardian, then accompanied her to the door. As Karyn stepped onto the porch, Lara lingered in the doorway. “You won’t recommend that he be taken from me, will you?” she asked, aware of how pitiful she sounded. “He’s never known any parent but me, and you can see how attached he is.”
“I think he’s in the perfect place right now.” Karyn gave Lara a lovely, wide smile, more warming than the feeble winter sun. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to visit with him alone next week. Perhaps, in time, he’ll even allow me to take him to McDonalds for a treat.”
Lara nodded, too overcome with relief to object. She waved as Karyn turned and left; then she closed the door and rested her forehead against the cool wood.
Another test, apparently passed. Karyn Gower could either be Lara’s best friend or her worst enemy, but so far, all signs were good.
Lara pulled herself off the door, then gasped to see Connor standing in the hallway. “Goodness! You startled me.”
He didn’t answer, but moved into the living room and stood behind the sheer curtains, his eyes following Karyn Gower as she got into her car. As the car pulled away, he turned to Lara with a shadow in his eyes. “Hunter said she told a lie,” he said, with a warning look that put an immediate damper on Lara’s rising spirits. “What kind of social worker tells lies?”
Lara pushed her hair back from her forehead. “I’m sure it was no big deal. I don’t even remember what it was, some little something she probably said just to make Hunter feel comfortable.”
“You don’t win a kid by lying to him. Anybody should know that.”
“Connor, it was nothing. She likes us. That means she’ll tell the judge to let him stay with me.”
Her words seemed to hang in the air as if for inspection. Too late, she realized what she’d said.
“With us, Connor. I want him to stay with us.”
“I don’t trust her, Lara, so don’t play up to her. You’ve got to keep being careful.”
She lifted her hands in exasperation. “I’ve been careful for six years. It’s time I learned to trust somebody!”
“Trust your son. Trust Franklin and Harriet. And trust me.”
“That’s not fair.” She crossed her arms, irked by his cool, aloof manner. Why was he trying to antagonize her? For the last five years she had looked out for Hunter’s interests alone, and she’d done a darn good job of keeping him safe and secure. Connor had been back in her life for just three weeks, yet here he was, trying to tell her what to do—
She had no intention of surrendering her role as Hunter’s protector, not even to the man she loved.
She lowered her voice to a reasonable tone. “I like Karyn Gower, and I think she likes me. I’m going to do everything I can to help her see us in a positive light. If I resist her in any way, she could tell the judge that I’m not a good mother. If I view her as the enemy like you obviously do, she’ll give Hunter to Devin Sloane!”
He flinched as though she had struck him, but he showed no sign of relenting. “I’m only trying to point out a rather obvious fact—Karyn Gower lied to Hunter. How will you know if she lies to you? And she’s certainly no fool. She’ll discover sooner or later that Hunter is a special child—”
“Connor?”
Lara turned at the sound of Hunter’s voice. He stood in the bedroom doorway, one hand pressed to his eye, the silver track of tears marking his cheek. Lara reached for her son, her blood running thick with guilt, but Hunter climbed into Connor’s arms.
Lara stood still and heard her heart break. “You okay, buddy?”
Connor straightened, cradling Hunter’s head against his chest. “I think he’s tired,” he said, unspoken pain alive and glowing in his eyes. “Let me convince him it’s time for a nap; then we’ll talk.”
Lara moved forward and blocked Connor’s path. As her heart brimmed with regret and fear, she drew her loved ones into her arms, then rested her head on her husband’s shoulder.
He had done so much for them. He had waited for her through five long years. In a way, he had sacrificed more and received far less than she had.
“Why don’t we all lie down together?” She searched Connor’s face. “Tomorrow, after we’ve had some time to pray and rest, we’ll know what we should do.”
Connor lifted his hand to stroke her cheek, then slipped his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the bedroom where he’d brought Hunter into the world.
“You say the mother seemed pleased to have you involved?”
Nadine asked the question, since Sloane had done little but smile since Karyn Gower reported that she’d visited with the boy that afternoon. The three of them sat now in Sloane’s monstrously plush library. Nadine and Karyn occupied the sofa while Sloane sat in a wing chair, his eyes focused on thoughts Nadine couldn’t even imagine.
“Yes.” Karyn looked at Nadine and lifted a brow, asking in feminine shorthand if she should wait for Mr. Sloane to snap out of his reverie.
Nadine shook her head in an almost imperceptible gesture. “Tell me everything. Is the boy well? Healthy?”
Karyn cast a quick glance at Sloane, who stared out the window; then she shrugged. “He seems as healthy as any other kid, but the mother did mention that she thought he ought to see a doctor. She didn’t seem worried, though. And the kid talked to me for a few minutes; then Lara sort of hustled him out of the room.” The young woman’s mouth quirked with humor. “He’s a funny little guy. I was trying to put the boy at ease, so I said I had a brother about his age. From out of the blue, the kid looks at me and says, ‘You’re lying.’”
Nadine reached for her purse; she needed a cigarette. Sloane didn’t know how much this little recital of information was costing him, and he probably wouldn’t care that he had effectively doubled Karyn Gower’s yearly salary. But he could at least listen to the girl.
“You say the child knew you lied?” Sloane shifted, and beneath the polished veneer of his face Nadine saw a suggestion of activity, as though an idea were trying to surface. “How did he know?”
Karyn shrugged again. “I have no idea. The mother said something about him being a little prophet.”
“A prophet.” A thin smile rose to Sloane’s lips as he looked at Nadine. “Can you imagine? What an intellect he must possess! Perhaps he saw the contraction of her pupils; perhaps he knew enough to intuitively read the way she tugged on her ear or scratched her nose—”
“I didn’t do anything like that.” Karyn drew back. “We were only talking.”
Sloane leaned forward. “The scientific study of body language has proven that humans routinely transmit telltale clues when they indulge in prevarication. But perhaps this boy has inherited some sort of intuitive knowledge.” Sloane’s forehead creased in thought; then his brows rose. “An ancient hunter would have needed to know how to read his surroundings. His life would have depended upon being able to interpret the tensing of a panther about to spring. He would have known how to judge whether an enemy spoke the truth or lied about danger outside the camp.” A livid hue overspread his face as he smiled at Nadine. “A prophet! How wonderful! No wonder Lara was so anxious to shoo the boy away!”
“Really, Mr. Sloane, it was a little thing.” Karyn gazed at him with a bland half smile, but the social worker had no idea of the boy’s heritage. She probably thought Sloane a raging eccentric.
“A prophet speaks through divine inspiration.” He sat up and ran his hands over his knees, then gave Nadine a smile of pure rapture. “I told you he would be closer to the divine spark!”
The social worker frowned in confusion, but Sloane reached out and patted her knee. “My dear, you have outdone yourself. I salute you.” His smile deepened to laughter. “How eagerly we will await your next report!”
Nadine knocked a cigarette from the package, then held it between her fingers. “I’d counsel against too many visits. We don’t want to alarm Lara.”
“Lara O’Hara would never suspect this charming girl.” Sloane’s eyes smoldered as he turned to Karyn. “Keep visiting my son, Ms. Gower, and gently push for private moments with the boy. When you are alone, you might begin to tell him about the man who has been waiting a lifetime to see him.”
Karyn accepted the assistance that Sloane offered and let him pull her to her feet. As Nadine lowered her head to light her cigarette, she heard the girl twitter as Sloane bent over her hand for a fervent kiss.
She brought her head up, breathed deeply through the contrivance that would most likely put her in an early grave, then blew an elegant stream of smoke toward the happy twosome.