His First Choice
“Good job, sport,” Jem said, raising his hand in the air for the high five that Levi generally landed with a meaty slap when he accomplished a task. “That was a whole bite!”
The boy shrugged. He didn’t high five. He didn’t even look up.
Sliding from his seat to crouch on the floor by his son’s chair, Jem moved his head until he could look directly into his son’s downcast gaze. “You mad at me, son?”
Levi shook his head.
“You sure seem mad.”
Another shake of the head, and then those big blue eyes—so like his mother’s—filled with tears. “I wanna play T-ballllll,” he wailed and, throwing himself at Jem, started to sob. “You said I could and we been waiting and I wanna play balllll,” he said again, smearing red sauce all over both of them as he clutched Jem with his dinner-caked pudgy little hands, cast slung around the back of Jem’s neck.
“I know you do, son,” Jem said, standing with his son clutched to his chest, wishing he could make the world right for the little boy, and hating the fact that he couldn’t.
And knew that particular pang was probably only just beginning to be a force in his life. One that was going to follow him to the grave, no doubt.
There was a hurricane storm of tears, and then they dried up.
“Is it time for ice cream yet?” the boy asked, pulling away to play with the top button of the now-stained white dress shirt Jem had worn with his jeans to work that day—along with the tie he’d discarded the second he’d climbed into his truck afterward.
“Let’s see how much of this spaghetti you can eat first,” he said, setting the boy gently back in his booster seat and scooting him up to the table. “The more we eat, the less we have to put away for later.”
Levi twirled, slurped and chewed, wiping his dripping chin with the back of his hand as often as with the napkin Jem kept reminding him of.
When Jem burped, Levi laughed, mocked the sound deep in his chest and laughed again. T-ball tryouts, and the Great Disappointment, apparently a thing of the past.
Jem went with the flow. Oh, to be young again. Able to cry away the hurt in a blast of snot and tears, and then move on.
He’d do well to take a lesson from his son. Minus the snot and tears, of course.
* * *
ONE OF THE things that suited Lacey was that her lifestyle complemented her job. No family waiting for her to come home to, expecting dinner on the table and numerous other things. No, she was free to work the hours required of her—hours that also included time when most people weren’t at work, as that was when she could observe them at home—without taking flack for it like some of her coworkers had to do.
Ella Ackerman had officially stepped down from her position as Santa Raquel Children’s Hospital’s representative to the High Risk Team when she’d found out she was pregnant, but still two months away from delivery, she was filling in for her temporary replacement while the other woman was on vacation. She fully intended to take up the position again when she was back to work full-time after the baby’s birth.
A neonatal charge nurse, Ella, like Lacey, was another one who couldn’t walk away from the little ones who weren’t fortunate enough to be born to the safe and healthy life most assumed to be a given. Ella’s cause was more encompassing than the children, though. Married to the founder of the Lemonade Stand, a unique domestic violence shelter hidden within Santa Raquel boundaries, Ella seemed to live and breathe the fight against abuse. She and her husband, Brett, the Stand’s founder, dedicated much of their spare time to the women and children who’d been displaced from their homes due to the violence enacted upon them by family members.
She was always ready to help and never seemed to run out of energy or hope.
Yet even Ella had sounded a bit downhearted when she’d called back that afternoon to let Lacey know that Levi Bridges had been in the emergency room a total of six times in four years. He hadn’t been flagged as a potential victim of abuse because none of the incidents looked at individually had appeared as anything more than accidents that might befall a young child.
His parents were educated, employed and, from chart notes, were appropriately attentive, concerned, aware and loving with the little boy. There’d never been any noted substance abuse or smell of alcohol on anyone’s breath when the boy had been brought in.
The first time was for a cut on his head when he’d been six months old. He had scooted himself off his blanket on the floor and over to a wall, where he’d pulled on a cord plugged into a socket. He’d yanked a lamp off the table and down on himself, where the base had cut his forehead, leaving a wound that had required six stitches.
The second time he’d had a pea up his nose. Third had been a serious laceration to his foot. It hadn’t required stitches, but the father, who—it had been charted—was visibly distraught, had also requested an X-ray, wanting to make certain that the foot wasn’t broken. He’d had his son strapped into a seat on the back of his bike and the little boy’s foot had come loose and had been caught in the spokes. The fourth time he’d stepped on a hot coal that had fallen out of a backyard pig-roasting pit. And fifth had been for a high fever for which they’d never found an explanation. His temperature had come down quickly after medication; lab work showed a healthy toddler and a follow-up doctor’s appointment had been a well-child visit.
Possible scenarios of misconduct ran through Lacey’s mind as she turned her midclass black sedan into the neighborhood of the address she had for Jeremiah Bridges—Levi’s father.
Six hospital visits, followed by a call of suspected abuse. A home visit was going to happen. Immediately.
And would have whether she’d had a family to go home to or not.
* * *
THANKING THE FATES that had seen to it to deliver such a great kid to him, Jem lingered over dinner, giving Levi all the time he wanted to invest in mastering the art of spaghetti rolling. While tear streaks still showed in the tomato sauce smeared on the little guy’s cheeks, you’d never know that they’d just come through a major crisis.
Chances were it wouldn’t come up again, either. Levi didn’t generally revisit a storm that had passed. One of his better qualities, Jem thought. One that would serve him well into adulthood.
So would his lack of vanity where his looks were concerned. Jem didn’t expect that one to last much past kindergarten. He himself hadn’t started to care about his appearance until at least junior high, but kids grew up a lot quicker these days...
The peal of their doorbell stopped him in his thoughts. Not pleasantly. Dread hit the pit of his stomach, as it did anytime something unexpected happened. Would the sensation never dissipate? Fade away like Levi’s mourning of his T-ball season?
“Stay put, buddy,” he said with a serious look at his son.
“Okay.” The little boy’s answer was one Jem trusted implicitly. Levi had his less than stellar moments, but Jem had learned to discern when he could count on the boy to do as he was told. Which, thankfully, so far was most of the time.
If it was Tressa at the door—and who else would it be at dinnertime on a Monday night?—she was probably upset about something. Or pissed at someone. Neither of which were moods their son needed to see. She’d want Jem to take care of whatever or whoever it was. And if he could, he would. Tressa, for all her waywardness, was a good mother. And she adored her son.
Pulling open the door with what he hoped was an expression that would calm down his drama-ridden ex-wife, he was shocked to see a slender blonde standing on his front porch. Obviously she had the wrong house, but...he suddenly didn’t mind. She was a looker. More than a looker. That body... Those drab pants and shapeless jacket were hopefully hiding some sexy lingerie...
“Mr. Bridges?”
He blinked. What the hell?
Had he just been fantasizing about a stranger on his porch? In broad daylight? With his son just feet behind him?
Clearly time for him to get a little...in an appropriate place at an appropriate time. As soon as possible.
Tressa was generally accommodating... He just usually lost all desire anytime he thought about her in that way these days.
“Jeremiah Bridges?” The woman spoke for a second time. Her hair was pulled back tight in a twist thing on the back of her neck. He actually thought about reaching back there and pulling out the hairpins. He had to know how long it was.
“Yes,” he blurted, embarrassed that he was still standing there like an imbecile, thinking about sex. “I’m Jem Bridges. What can I do for you?”
Was one of his men in trouble? He didn’t know all their wives, but he’d met most of them at one time or another. And couldn’t remember any looking like this.
So maybe she was a girlfriend...attempting to catch someone out in a lie... He gave himself a mental shake. Most of the world was not like Tressa.
“I’m Lacey Hamilton, Mr. Bridges.” She handed him a card. “I’m from child protective services.”
Jem’s chin dropped. His gut knotted over the spaghetti he’d had for dinner.
Not a wife. Or a girlfriend. She was an agent from child protective services. And there could be only one reason she’d come to his house.
Only one child there. Only one child in his life. One child he knew well enough to answer for to any child agency.
With a mother who, on occasion, tried to make Jem’s life hell.
Which meant only one thing to him. The beautiful woman standing on his doorstep wasn’t there to feed his sexual fantasies. She was there to implode his life.
CHAPTER THREE
THE FIRST THING Lacey noticed from her spot on the front porch looking in was a clean home—at least what she could see of it. The father, not so much. He was clean-cut enough, but the red stains on the front of his white button-down shirt were a bit off-putting. His open blue gaze kind of captivated her—until she blinked, and broke the contact, and remembered that the man’s lean, cowboy-type good looks had nothing to do with her reason for being there.
Other than giving her a sign that she wasn’t dealing with someone currently drunk or obviously down on his luck.
Well-to-do, well-dressed, gorgeous fathers abused their kids. And cowboys with stained shirts could, too.
“May I come in?” she asked. If he refused, she’d get a warrant. Then there’d be a strike against him in her estimation.
“Of course.” He stepped back.
Once she was inside, she could see the living room and what looked like a smaller living area with books and a piano off to her right. The home was one of the older, antebellum-type houses that dotted the town of Santa Raquel. But where the big mansions on the beach, and across from the beach, carried seven-figure price tags, Bridges’s home was farther inland. And not quite as large.
“What can I do for you?”
The contractor stood directly in front of her. Arms crossed. Defensive and possibly aggressive posture. Daring her to come in any farther?
She’d followed protocol, had logged her intent to make the home visit and had her phone’s GPS location on. Her whereabouts could be traced. If he tried anything untoward, he’d get caught.
Still, she could have waited for another agent to accompany her. If she’d been so inclined. If she’d have been able to sleep without assuring herself that little Levi wasn’t in immediate danger.
She could also have called the police—they often partnered on child protective services cases that involved anything of a criminal nature.
Looking around, taking her time to answer the man still standing guard over his home, Lacey assimilated as she’d been trained to do.
She didn’t have definitive proof of illegal activity. But Mara had noticed finger-shaped bruising weeks ago.
A broken arm could indicate escalating injury. She wasn’t frightened, just cautious by nature.
“My office received a phone call,” she started slowly, softly, as she heard sounds coming from a room in the back of the house. A utensil dropping on a table or counter?
“Is your son here?”
“Of course he’s here. He lives here.”
“May I see him?”
Frowning, the man studied her. “I need to see some picture identification. Anyone can have cards printed up.”
Reaching into her black strapped leather satchel, she pulled out her badge and handed it to him.
Apparently he was cautious by nature, too.
Or stalling while he tried to figure out what to do?
Nodding, he handed the card back to her. “You said you had a phone call.”
Someone was tapping a rhythm—thump, thump, thump.
She nodded, taking a step toward the sound. “May I see your son?”
“Of course you can. But I’d like to know why first.”
“Clap along...nah nah nah nah das what you wanna do...” The faint sound of the childish voice interrupted them from the distance and Lacey stared in the direction her feet wanted her to go.
“Pharrell Williams,” she said. The song “Happy” was one she played full blast in her car on those days when her job seemed heavier than she was.
The tapping continued, not at all in rhythm with the words. The tune wasn’t bad, though.
“He’s a little off beat,” Jeremiah Bridges said. “And he’s supposed to be eating, so I need to get back to him before I have spaghetti sauce splattered on the walls in line with those beats.”
The sounds continued. And Lacey’s suspicious mind wondered if Mr. Bridges had somehow triggered his son’s impromptu performance for her benefit. Except that he’d have had no way to do so. He hadn’t known she was coming. No one outside the logbook in the office had.
Of course, the boy could be programmed to begin the performance anytime the doorbell rang...
A far-fetched thought even for her.
“Don’t let me stop you from getting back to him,” Lacey said. “I’m here to check on his well-being.”
“His being will be well until I return to him,” the man said with a confidence that could have been endearing if it didn’t make her wonder just what made a grown man so certain that a little boy would stay at the table. “It’s the walls I’m worried about.”
“He’s confined, then?” she asked. Strapped in a booster? Or...heaven forbid, did the man keep a four-year-old in a high chair?
She’d seen it before. A mother who’d lost a toddler, not letting her second baby grow up. One of the saddest situations she’d had to oversee. Because in the end, she’d had to take the woman’s second baby from her, too.
“No.”
“Then how do you know he’ll be okay?” She was being difficult. She knew it even before she said the words. But the man was...bothering her.
“Because he gave me his word he wouldn’t get down from the table.”
Impressive? Or oppressive?
“Now.” Mr. Bridges’s arms were crossed again. “I want to know why child protective services is in my home checking up on my son. What’s this phone call you mentioned?”
“Someone is concerned about Levi’s welfare.”
“Nuh nuh nuh...” came from the distance.
“Someone.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Bridges.”
“I’m his father. I have a right to know if someone thinks that another person is hurting my son.”
“Not while the investigation is ongoing.”
“The investigation...” His eyes narrowed and then widened. “Wait a minute. You think I hurt my son? I’m the one being investigated?” He sounded as shocked as any parent she’d ever heard.
And she’d heard some doozies—from the innocent and the guilty.
“Everyone in Levi’s life is being investigated,” Lacey said, softening her tone in spite of how much the man was knocking her off her mark.
It was as though she’d known him before...in another life, or something as absurd.
“Well, I can tell you right now, no one is hurting my son. I’m with him every day. I’d know if he was being mistreated. Wouldn’t I?”
The catch in the deep voice struck her as he uttered those last two words, lodging someplace in her chest.
“It’s still my duty to check.” Her visit wasn’t personal. Had nothing to do with her at all—other than as an agent for the state.
“By all means.” He stepped back. And then, when she made to move forward, stood in her way again. “If someone is hurting him, I want them stopped,” he said, his gaze flint sharp.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lacey nodded.
“That’s what I’m here for,” she told him.
And hoped to God the call was a false alarm.
* * *
HE WANTED TO grab his son out of his chair with both arms, shield him against his chest and run. But instead Jem led the drably dressed woman slowly down a hall to the old kitchen he’d remodeled himself in his spare time when Tressa had been pregnant with Levi.
He couldn’t panic. Not yet.
Not if someone was hurting his boy. Possible suspects ran through his mind. The only people he knew who had access to Levi besides himself were preschool workers and his mother. No one who would hurt him.
And who’d called?
Tressa sprang to mind again. But would she really go that far? She’d pulled some questionable shit a time or two, but only to lash out at him.
As far as he knew, she didn’t have any reason to be pissed with him right then. Things had been good. Better than they’d been in years...
And then something else dawned on him. Social services, child protective services, could take his son away from him if they felt the choice was warranted.
Surely Ms. Hamilton wasn’t there with that thought in mind. Levi was his son. His life. No one was going to take better care of the boy than he did.
Or love him like he did.
She had to have some kind of real proof...
Didn’t she?
Ready to grab the woman back, to haul her ass through his house and put her firmly but kindly outside his front door and then lock it behind her, Jem could only stand and watch as she rounded the corner, went through the archway to the kitchen and approached the table.
“Hi, Levi, I heard about you, and your dad said it was okay if I came to meet you.”
He’d heard of a devil in sheep’s clothing. Had quite possibly grown up with one, in the form of his older sister.
And hoped to hell he hadn’t just let one into his son’s world.
CHAPTER FOUR
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” Levi asked.
Lacey understood, the first second she heard that little voice, what Mara had been telling her about Levi’s precociousness. In a perfectly serious tone, he sounded as self-assured as his father had done. All mixed in with soft r’s and a spaghetti-sauce-smeared face.
It took her two seconds to put that sauce together with the stains on the front of Mr. Bridges’s shirt. Had there been some kind of physical tussle with the boy? Was that how Bridges could be so certain his son wouldn’t move out of his chair?
“I’m Lacey,” she said, taking a seat at the big butcher-block table with the little boy. His father’s place, empty dirty plate with silverware sitting neatly in the middle of it, was within easy reach of Levi. “Lacey Hamilton.”
The boy stared at her. “You have blond hair.”
She said, “Yep,” and smiled. She was good with kids. Always had been. Which was part of the reason she’d chosen to go into social work.
“I have a broken arm,” he said, holding up his cast as he pursed his lips.
He’d been crying. She could see the streaks left by his tears. And had to wonder...
As if just noticing the telltale streak marks himself, Jeremiah appeared from over by the sink. “Let’s get your face wiped up, buddy.” He had a wet paper towel in hand.
“I can do it.” Levi took it from his father, lifted his chin and scrubbed at his face. He then handed the cloth back to his father and held his hand up to him.
Jeremiah wiped each finger. “You through eating?” he asked. The plate in front of the boy was scattered with stray strands of spaghetti, but mostly empty.
“Is that enough bascetti for ice cream?”
“Yep.” The man didn’t miss a beat as he took the cloth, the plate, and moved back to the sink, which was on the boy’s side of the table.
Lacey had to give him points for letting her sit alone at the table with the boy, as though giving his consent to his son to be friendly with her and letting Levi know that she was friend, not threat.
But he’d been crying. Violently enough to leave stains down his face. Mara, who’d known him since he was three months old, who’d been caring for him all day most days ever since, said there’d been a drastic behavioral change in him.
An alarming change...
“How’d you break your arm?” Lacey asked. He’d brought it up, so it made the question natural enough.
The boy looked down. “I fell.” The words were barely discernible in the mumble that came out.
She leaned forward, wishing she could take that little body into her arms, lay his head on her shoulder and promise him that no one would ever hurt him again.
It was a reaction she hadn’t had since her first years on the job. At least not often. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about each and every child who crossed her path. She did. Enough to keep the distance mandatory for her to do her job and make the hard decisions that would keep them safe.
“Fell how?” she asked when Levi’s chin finally lifted off from his chest.
“Did the hospital call you?” Jeremiah Bridges, wiping his hands on a dish towel, came toward the table.
With a glance at the boy, back at him and then back to Levi, she ignored the question.
“How did you fall, Levi?”
“I dunno. I just fell,” Levi said, then looked to his dad. “Can I go play now?”
With a glance in Lacey’s direction, Jeremiah left the decision up to her. She nodded.
The boy was well kept—was obviously used to washing up after meals, too—and well fed, at least that night. And every day, as well, judging by the lean strength in his four-year-old body as Jeremiah turned the chair and assisted as Levi hopped down from his booster seat.
“No video games,” he said as the boy walked slowly toward the archway. “And don’t forget, no Batman or Superman for another day or two.”
“I know...” The boy’s head hung again. But as Levi passed his dad, Jeremiah held his hand up for a high five and Levi gave him one.
Not the actions of a frightened child.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jeremiah asked the boy. And then, with a nod of his head in her direction, he gave the boy a questioning look.
“Oh, yeah,” Levi said and turned to her. “It was nice to meet you, Lacey,” he said. He looked at his dad again. “Did I do it right?”
“Yes, sport, you did it just fine,” Jeremiah said, grinning at Levi. “Now go play for a few minutes.”
The little body was almost at the archway when Levi turned back. “Just until time for ice cream, right?”
“Right.”
Jeremiah’s grin was all for his son, but Lacey caught the tail end of it as he turned back to her. She started to respond before she caught herself.
He was looking at her full on by then. And he’d sobered completely. So had she.
“Tell me about that broken arm.” She kept her tone quiet. She itched for the tablet in her purse. She needed to type about the arm. And when they were done with that, about the cause of those tears.
Kids cried, sometimes daily. Most particularly the little ones. It was a part of life. The testing of boundaries, and the impromptu bursts of emotions that learning right from wrong elicited. Tears were no reason to suspect wrongdoing here.
Still, a vision of those particular streaks on those particular cheeks had burned itself in her mind.
“What’s to tell?” Bridges asked, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him again. “He fell. And if that’s what this is about, if someone is trying to make something out of the fact that a kid fell and broke his arm, I’d suggest they take a look at...well...” He shrugged. “Even I broke my arm when I was a kid. Boys do that. It’s not a crime.”