His First Choice

“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.”

The way his eyebrows were drawn—as if he was confused, lost—sent a mixed message, combined with the defensiveness of the rest of his posture.

His dark hair wasn’t overly long. Or short, either. He reminded her of a citified cowboy, one who wore work boots instead of cowboy ones. He was a contractor, she knew, and owned his own business, which had rave reviews online: a Better Business Bureau endorsement, and a stellar record with the Registrar of Contractors.

She’d had a busy afternoon.

“Are you with me?” he asked now, switching from left foot crossed over right to the opposite, drawing her eyes to the jeans that fit those legs well enough to star in a commercial for...anything manly.

“I am,” she said. “I’m listening. Not just to what you’re saying, but for what you aren’t. It’s my job to be observant.” She was going to stop there, but for some reason added, “And to make sure that I take enough time that I don’t jump to conclusions.” The last was true. On every job. Just not something she generally shared with a parent under investigation.

“Do you fear you’re doing that here?” he asked, his glance changing from lost to piercing. “Because I can save you some time. I have not, ever, even had a split-second urge to lash out at my son. Not in any way that could be considered abusive. I’ve gotten impatient. Spoken more sharply than I’d have liked. I’ve raised my voice to him. But I have never, ever lifted a hand to him or in any way trampled his spirit.”

It was one of the better “I’d never do that” speeches she’d heard. Maybe that was why she so badly wanted to believe him. But she had to have more than a statement of innocence. A four-year-old child’s life could be at stake.

“How’d you break your arm?”

He blinked, stood up straight and uncrossed his arms. “What?” Then crossed his arms again in an arrogant expression of nonchalance.

She didn’t blame him his defensiveness. Nor could she let it keep her from finding out what she had to know.

“I fell off my bike,” he said.

“See, now, that’s a lie.” She probably shouldn’t have said the words aloud. But she’d known instantly that he was lying. For the first time since she’d entered his home, he avoided her glance.

Or he was a master manipulator who was playing with her.

“No, I did,” he said, meeting her gaze now. “I was eight years old. Racing my older sister. Went up a curb and flew over the handlebars. I landed on my arm.”

She believed him. And where did that leave her? She’d been so certain a second ago that he was lying.

“Boys break their arms,” he said softly, almost as though he felt sorry for her. A heat wave passed through her, leaving her unsure for the time it took her to draw one deep breath.

She wasn’t being paid to feel. Or sense. Or even “believe.” Certainly not at that stage. She was there to gather facts. As many as she could get. To look for inconsistencies along the way. And then to assimilate.

She was getting ahead of herself.

“You want to know what’s bothering me?” She looked up at him, needing to stand and face him head-on. His entire demeanor seemed to dare her to do so. But she stayed in her seat to show him—and maybe herself—that he couldn’t intimidate her.

“Yeah,” he said, surprising her as he suddenly pulled out a chair and sat with her. “If you want to know the truth, I really do want to know what’s bothering you. I’m sitting here having dinner with my son, helping him deal with the grave disappointment he’s experiencing for missing out on something he’s been looking forward to for six months, and suddenly here you are, disrupting our lives in a very unpleasant way. I think I deserve to know why.”

Wow. The man sure knew how to deliver his punches. Funny thing was, she didn’t feel like she’d been hit. At least not by anything that smacked of evil, or even foul play.

Stick to your known purpose. Don’t let him pull you off course. The words of a mentor from her early days in social services surfaced in her mind.

“What’s bothering me is that neither you nor your son have told me how he came to fall. When I asked you how you broke your arm, you didn’t just say you fell. You said you fell off your bike. And then when I challenged you, you provided detail that was aimed at convincing me you were telling me the truth.”

He was assessing her. But she had no idea what he was thinking.

“I can’t tell you the details about my son’s broken arm.”

Aha. Now they were getting somewhere. “Why not?” Because they would incriminate him? Half expecting to hear him say that he needed to call his lawyer, she waited.

“Because I don’t know them.”

Disappointed, not because there’d been no lawyering up, but because she’d thought he was being honest with her, Lacey figured she was wasting her time there. If she’d had her tablet on, she’d have shut it off.

“Levi was with his mother when it happened.”

No. Don’t lie to me. You’re going to force me to take a harsher stance if you lie...

“The emergency room report said that you were the one who brought him in.”

“She called me. I went and picked him up. She’s not good with medical stuff.”

“And neither one of them told you what happened?” Did he really expect her to believe this?

“I know my ex-wife’s version. And frankly, I didn’t explain more completely because I didn’t want you finding fault with her. She’s a good person and doesn’t react well to being hassled. She’s a bit of a drama queen. But she loves Levi and would never do anything to harm him.”

Lacey sat up straighter and clutched the strap of her bag. Ex-spouses throwing each other under the bus was a classic. Common.

And here she was, disappointed in him for playing the card. For being on a potential abusive parent investigation, she had far too high an expectation of this guy.

He’d soon be telling her that his ex-wife lashes out. That she responds physically to anger and then regrets her actions. Or some version thereof. She knew the ropes.

“Can you be more specific?” She led him down his trail, thinking only of Levi now, of what resources would best help the boy. Family counseling? A caseworker—her—stopping by on a regular basis?

The state of California was pretty firm on its stance to remove kids from their homes only as a last resort.