Her Detective's Secret Intent. Tara Taylor Quinn
Detective Tad Newberry—currently on leave from the police force in Charlotte, North Carolina—walked into the pediatric examining room in Santa Raquel, California, forcing a big smile. In addition to the exam table, some plastic chairs, a counter with drawers and glass containers of various cotton supplies, the room boasted zoo animal prints in shades of blue and green. The floor was gray tile, eight-inch squares, and the lights were ceiling-mounted fluorescent bulbs.
After giving his surroundings a quick glance, cataloging every aspect out of habit, he focused on the seven-year-old boy dressed in jeans and a yellow T-shirt sitting on the edge of the table, swinging one of his legs back and forth—a nervous gesture, Tad surmised, not a happy or excited one.
The boy’s mother, in jeans and a navy hoodie with a light green shirt underneath, stood beside him, hand about an inch behind her son on the paper-covered cushioned mat. As though she was ready to grab him at any moment. Tad glanced at her, having been prepared ahead of time, and still felt bile rise in his throat when he saw the red-and-purple puffiness taking up one entire side of her face.
Marie Williams wanted to be kept safe from her abusive husband, but she didn’t want to press charges against him. She truly believed that once they got through their divorce, she’d be fine; he’d no longer be a risk to her. At the same time, she didn’t want to ruin his life.
Tad had heard the entire report. He didn’t get it. But it wasn’t his place to judge.
“Danny, this is Tad, the man I told you about,” said the third woman in the room that sunny April morning, the one Tad knew and by whose invitation he was there. Pediatric physician’s assistant Miranda Blake could easily steal Tad’s entire focus if he allowed himself to relax. Something he could never do around the lovely brunette.
“Hi, Danny,” he said, his gaze on the boy as he approached. “I hear you’ve had a bit of a tough time.” Pulling up a chair, not the doctor’s stool Miranda had pushed his way, he settled half a foot below the boy’s eye level.
Chin almost to his chest, Danny nodded.
The boy, a beefy little guy, though not overweight, wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Tad had never been married, had no kids, but he knew human nature. Leaning down, he tried to catch the boy’s look. Danny turned to his mother, burying his face in her chest.
“Tad’s not going to hurt you, Danny.” Miranda’s tone not only held authority, but that incredible sense of nurturing that had captivated him from the first time he’d heard her speak. The woman radiated caring. Not that he required it for himself.
He had other matters on his mind. Giving all his attention to the boy, he made a guess. “I’m not mad at you, son. You aren’t in any kind of trouble. And I’m not a doctor or anyone in the doctor business. I’m not here to look at your injuries. I’m just here to talk.”
He was there as part of an individualized plan designed by the High Risk Team in Santa Raquel—a team comprised of various working professionals who shared domestic violence information with the single goal of preventing domestic violence deaths. The current plan had been devised to protect Danny and his mother. His role, strictly volunteer, was to keep an eye on Danny anytime the boy wasn’t with his mother or teachers. Specifically he was to do multiple drive-bys a day to see that all was well. Miranda, a frequent visiting member of the High Risk Team, had come up with the idea for the two of them, Danny and him, to actually meet. Her reasoning—if Danny knew him and knew he was close by, he’d be more apt to reach out if he was in trouble—was sound.
But it was only going to work if he could get Danny to trust him.
Not an easy feat for a man who’d had few dealings with kids until recently, and a little boy who’d had his trust in men destroyed by the one man he should’ve been able to count on—his father.
The boy didn’t turn to him as Tad spoke. Danny’s tennis-shoe-clad heel on his good leg was no longer lightly bumping the table. It hung completely still beside the leg he could hardly move.
That caught Tad’s attention.
Danny didn’t have to know or like Tad for Tad to keep an eye on him. But maybe he could do more here than help prevent further physical harm. Maybe he could help the little guy heal in other ways.
As someone who was attempting to heal himself, he found that the idea appealed to him.
“Ladies, if you’ll please forgive any impropriety and feel free to turn your heads, I’d like to show Danny something on my leg.” He tore the paper from the top half of the exam table, wrapped it around his waist. Then, looking at Miranda and Danny’s mother for an okay and receiving nods, he awkwardly—using one hand, as though performing some kind of comic routine—managed to get his loose-fitting jeans undone and dropped them to the floor. He was a boxers kind of guy, dark blue that day,