Handprints. MYRNA TEMTE

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СКАЧАТЬ he flipped through the stack of mail, then carried the bills and his briefcase into the den.

      The massive desk and the files he’d brought home called to him, enticing him to escape from the upheaval in his personal life to the sanctuary of work. Compared to the constant ambiguity of raising a child, the law was blessedly clear.

      The sound of the television drifted into the den from the family room. Draping his coat and tie over the back of his chair, he went to find Kitty, rolling up his shirtsleeves on the way. As expected, she was curled up on the overstuffed sofa, staring at the TV as if entranced.

      Jack crossed the room. Kitty looked up at him with Gina’s brown eyes, but didn’t speak. Her eyes were huge in her small, pale face, and her ponytail holder had slipped over to one side of her head. There must be a trick to putting those things in so they’d stay put, but he hadn’t yet found it.

      “Hi, Kitten,” he said. “What are you up to?”

      Kitty shrugged one shoulder, then inclined her head toward the television. “Watching kid shows.”

      He glanced at the TV. A weird-looking creature with blue fur and googly eyes cavorted across the screen with a group of children. “So I see. Is this a good one?”

      She shrugged the same shoulder. He searched for another topic, but drew a blank. How this could happen to him, he didn’t know. Every day he talked to all kinds of people, from defendants and their attorneys, to cops and judges, to crime victims and their families, but he couldn’t even make decent chitchat with his own daughter.

      “Are you hungry?” he asked.

      Wrinkling her nose, Kitty shook her head. “Not very.”

      He checked his watch. “It’s past your dinnertime.”

      Kitty bounced her left leg against the sofa in a quick, rhythmic pattern. “Can’t help it, Daddy. I’m just not hungry.”

      “Did you have a snack after school?”

      “Uh-uh. Didn’t want one.”

      Studying her with a more critical eye, Jack frowned. Her face was painfully thin. So were her arms and legs. Had she lost weight or just grown? He wasn’t sure, but he knew she looked too scrawny to be healthy. When had that happened? He could have sworn she’d looked fine when he’d driven her to school that morning. Frustrated that he hadn’t noticed the change in her appearance sooner, he held out a hand to her.

      “Well, I’m starving. Come and set the table for me. Maybe that’ll help you work up an appetite.”

      Kitty slowly sat up. Then, with obvious reluctance, she pushed herself to her feet, but made no move to take his hand. Assuming she would follow, Jack walked back to the kitchen.

      This was the one completely renovated room in the whole house, and though he was an indifferent cook, he appreciated the modern, efficient layout Gina had created. He washed his hands at the faucet, then pulled a step stool up to the sink for Kitty while he rummaged through the pantry and the refrigerator.

      Ugh. He didn’t feel like cooking. A burger or a taco or a pizza sounded great, but he’d been studying nutrition lately—at Millie’s urging. Kitty needed fresh, healthy food, not an overdose of salt and saturated fat. He pulled out the green salad Millie had made, a package of chicken breasts, fresh broccoli and potatoes for the microwave.

      Kitty set the table, dragging herself back and forth between the table and the cupboards. Watching her covertly, Jack felt increasingly alarmed. In one of his child-rearing books he’d read that six-year-old kids were supposed to run around and drive their parents crazy with about a thousand questions a day. So why wasn’t Kitty doing that?

      Dammit, he’d worked so hard to learn how to be a good parent. And now, because of Ms. Busybody Walsh, he was seeing problems everywhere he looked.

      But what if Kitty really was suffering, and he wasn’t seeing it because he didn’t want to see it? Was that even possible?

      He hated the familiar worry clamoring for his attention, dreaded the sleepless nights he knew would follow. Thank you, Ms. Walsh. Why couldn’t that woman mind her own damn business?

      At seven-thirty Abby climbed into her red Bronco, drove north on Division Street and made her way to Little Spokane River Drive where the Grangers lived. The sun was almost to the western horizon, filling the sky with a soft, reddish glow. The air was cool and sweet, the scenery pretty as the road cut through alternating sections of productive farmland and new residential developments.

      There were some big, beautiful homes out here, but she wondered how a public official like Mr. Granger could afford the steep prices the area demanded. Maybe he’d inherited a lot of money, or his wife had carried a hefty life insurance policy. Or maybe his family had owned one of the original homesteads.

      It was none of her business, of course, but a healthy dose of curiosity rarely hurt anyone, and it made life much more interesting. The two-lane road followed the dips and rises of the spring-green foothills and the sparkling curves of the river. Abby rolled down the window, drinking in the soft, country sounds of birds and the rich, earthy smells of farm animals and freshly plowed fields.

      Two miles later she spotted a barn-shaped mailbox painted with the distinctive black-and-white spots of a Holstein cow. Wrought-iron numbers bearing the Grangers’ address stretched across the top. She crossed the small bridge and drove down a long, gravel driveway into the farmyard. Turning off the engine, she sat behind the steering wheel and studied the property with interest.

      She had expected an imposing, immaculate house and perfectly manicured grounds judging from Mr. Granger’s impeccable appearance and rigid personality. But while the white, two-story clapboard house was certainly imposing, its barren front porch and empty flower beds gave it a sad aura that reminded her of Kitty. Despite its neglected appearance, however, it had great potential to look homey and inviting.

      If it were hers, she would spend the summer decorating that big front porch with wind chimes and wicker furniture with bright, even gaudy cushions, and filling those flower beds with color and life.

      Abby slung her school satchel over her shoulder, then grabbed the plastic-wrapped plate of chocolate chip cookies and climbed out of the Bronco. Her stomach tightened with apprehension, but she straightened her spine and set off across the yard. Bracing herself for unpleasantness, she knocked on the door.

      Seconds later she heard footsteps, the door swung inward and Granger the Grouch stood in the opening. On a purely physical basis, she found Jack Granger extremely attractive. His features were rugged enough to make his face really interesting. Though they were usually cold and distant, his blue eyes revealed a fierce intelligence that fascinated her.

      She preferred men who weren’t quite so big, but she had to admit she’d admired his broad shoulders, narrow waist and long limbs more than once. Even a suit and tie couldn’t hide such a fit, well-defined physique.

      His evening beard had sprouted. He still wore his suit pants, but the coat and tie were missing and his white shirt hung open at the neck. All the way down to the third button. The V of chest exposed was tanned and matted with crisp dark hair. Oh, goodness, that slightly rumpled look was an improvement.

      “You,” he said, leaving no doubt whatsoever that finding her on his porch was anything but a nice surprise.

      She СКАЧАТЬ