Cops And...Lovers?. Linda Castillo
her shirt, she picked up her extra uniform and started for the door, all too aware that her heart was pounding. “You can do this,” she murmured, determined not to let the uncertainty rattle her.
The sound of a child’s voice coming from the outer office broke into her thoughts. Curious, she continued down the hall and stopped on entering the main office. A little girl with hair the color of a wheat field sat at Hector’s desk, tugging a coloring book from her backpack. She looked to be only eight or nine years old, but possessed the most adult eyes Erin had ever seen on a child.
Nick had come out of his office and was walking toward the girl. “Why aren’t you in school, honeybunch?” he asked.
The child shrugged. “I wanted to ride with you today.”
“It’s a schoolday.”
“I don’t want to go to school today.”
Stooping, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, then stood back and regarded her with an expression of stern amusement. “I thought you liked school this year. Isn’t today library day?”
“Mrs. McClellan doesn’t like me.”
“Doesn’t like you? What’s not to like?” He tousled her hair, his hand lingering. “Just between you and me, Mrs. McClellan told me you’re her favorite librarian.”
The little girl looked at the coloring book spread out on the desk. “Can’t I just stay here awhile? I brought my coloring book, see? I’ll be quiet.”
“Honey, I’d love to spend the day with you, but you can’t miss any more school and I’ve got work to do.” Digging in her backpack, he pulled out a box of colorful markers. “Who brought you here to the station?”
The little girl leaned over and shot Erin a less-than-friendly look over Nick’s shoulder. “Who’s that lady?”
Nick glanced at Erin, then turned back to the girl. “Her name’s Erin. She’s my new deputy—”
“That’s a boy’s name.”
“Steph, I want you to tell me who brought you here.”
“No one.” She selected a marker and began to color. “I just left. Mr. Finn sent me to the office for talking to Kimmy Bunger during attendance. The hall monitor was in the bathroom, and nobody was paying any attention, so I just left.”
Erin saw Nick’s shoulders go rigid. “Wait a minute,” he said firmly. “You just left? An adult didn’t drive you here?”
“It’s not that big a deal, Daddy. The school’s only two blocks away.”
“I’m afraid leaving school without permission is a big deal, Steph. You know I’m going to have to call the school and talk to the principal again, don’t you?” Gently easing the marker from her fingers, he rounded her chair and pulled it back from the desk.
That was when Erin noticed the wheelchair. She stared, trying valiantly to curb the resulting shock.
“You know you’re not allowed to leave school without permission,” Nick said, picking up the phone and punching in numbers. “Why didn’t you tell your teacher you wanted to go home? Why didn’t you call me?”
In some small corner of her mind, Erin heard him ask for the principal. She stood frozen in place, telling herself the sight of the wheelchair hadn’t upset her, hadn’t made her remember.
Images from the night of the shooting burst forth in her mind’s eye. She fought the flashback, but it pressed down on her, a solid weight of fear that stole her concentration and threatened her control. Danny lying on the floor in a pool of blood. The churning in her gut. The smell of gunpowder.
The folded uniform she’d been clutching slipped from her hands and fell to the floor in a heap. Nick looked up, his eyes narrowing. Terrified he would misinterpret her reaction, Erin quickly scooped up the fallen uniform, then backed into the relative safety of the hall. Her chest felt as if it was being squeezed by a giant vise, but she forced air into her lungs. She was going to be okay, she assured herself. It had been a while since she’d had a flashback, but they still came on occasion. Whenever a sound or smell or sight reminded her of the night she’d been shot, it all came rushing back….
Ordering herself to calm down, she smoothed the front of her uniform and watched Nick kneel to tie his daughter’s shoe. The little girl wore a pink sweatshirt and matching pants, with polka-dot sneakers. It was a happy outfit, made for climbing trees and playing hopscotch. But Erin could plainly see by the look in this child’s eyes that she wasn’t happy. She certainly wasn’t going to get up out of that wheelchair and play hopscotch anytime soon.
“Get your books and markers together, kiddo,” he said. “I’m taking you home.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“It’s either school or home,” he said firmly. “I’ll let you choose.”
“Please, Daddy, I want to go with you.”
Erin didn’t miss the pain that knifed across Nick’s features. Jaw clenched, he looked down at the floor, then slowly straightened, as if the effort cost him more energy than he had to spare. “Put your books and markers in your book bag, honeybunch. I’ll take you home.”
Huffing in displeasure, the little girl wheeled closer to the desk and started throwing markers one by one into her book bag.
Erin hadn’t even known Nick Ryan had a family. He didn’t wear a ring; she’d assumed he was unmarried. That his child was handicapped struck a chord within her. Pain broke open in her chest—a slow ache that burgeoned until it enveloped her entire body. And her heart silently wept when she remembered another wheelchair, and a man she’d sentenced to the kind of hell she could only imagine in her worst nightmares.
“McNeal.”
She started at the sound of Nick’s voice, and forced her gaze to his.
Standing at the end of the hall, he shot her a look cold enough to freeze acid. “In my office.”
Pressing her hand against her stomach, she walked past him and into his office. Oh, Lord, she hadn’t intended to react to the wheelchair. She couldn’t imagine what he must think of her.
Nick entered behind her and closed the door. When he turned to her, his eyes were the color of a force five tornado that was headed straight in her direction.
“If the wheelchair bothers you I suggest you go back to Chicago and forget you ever set foot in Logan Falls,” he snapped.
“It doesn’t—”
“You look like you just saw a ghost. I can’t have you falling apart every time you see my daughter, for crying out loud.”
Erin stared at him, heart pounding wildly, while the words built in her chest like a sickness. “I’m sorry. I was…distracted—”
“You were about to come apart at the seams,” he interrupted.
“I was…thinking—”
“Thinking?”
“I was thinking about…Danny,” she said, knowing it would be professional suicide to tell him about the flashbacks or the nightmares.
“What does he have to do with this?”
When she trusted her voice not to betray her, she raised her chin and met Nick’s gaze. “He’s in a wheelchair. I’m the one who put him there.”
Because he had an eight-year-old daughter, Nick didn’t usually curse, but today he made an exception. Of all the explanations Erin could have offered, the bit about her ex-partner knocked him speechless as effectively as a set of brass knuckles.
He was accustomed to negative reactions to his daughter’s wheelchair. Some people stared. Others ignored her. Some people just smiled