by Hope White
She went directly to the crib, checking Mia’s cheeks. Still warm. They’d have to get a baby thermometer and acetaminophen first thing. The low tone of Whit’s voice drifted from the other bedroom through the bathroom. Carly couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he sounded intense.
She went into the bathroom, found a cloth in the cabinet and rinsed it under cool water. Just as she squeezed it out, Whit stepped into the doorway.
“We need to talk,” he said softly so as not to disturb Mia.
She followed him into the other room and he shut the door. “Were you being honest when you said my brother knew about your criminal history?”
Defense mechanisms clicked into place. “Yes.”
“Even the part about you being forbidden from seeing your little sister?”
He might as well have slugged her in the gut. She couldn’t speak at first.
“Carly?”
“Mr. Bremerton knew,” she said, stoic. She could feel herself shutting down, putting distance between herself and this man she thought might have given her the benefit of the doubt.
“Then explain to me why he hired you,” he said.
“You’d have to ask him,” she shot back.
“Come on, help me out here.”
“Who told you about Greta?”
“Does it matter? Look, my priority is Mia’s welfare.”
“A child you didn’t even know until yesterday.” She was on the offense, wanting to hurt Whit before he could hurt her.
“Look, if you were a danger to your own sister, how can I, in good conscience, keep you around my niece?”
Her heart sank. He’d been the one person in this whole mess with the potential to believe in her, to have faith that there was more to her story, and now he was turning his back on Carly, too, just like her parents and authorities.
Maybe she should have kept fighting, Aunt Vicky had said softly to their minister. She didn’t know Carly was nearby, and she’d never say the words directly to Carly because she knew it would upset her niece. It made Carly wonder if she had found a better lawyer and kept explaining her situation until someone actually listened, would she have been vindicated instead of vilified?
“I mean if your own parents took out a restraining order—”
“Stop,” Carly interrupted Whit. “You know nothing about my childhood, or my criminal parents. They used their children to help perpetrate their crimes. My parents...” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. She had to say this, had to finally defend herself. “My parents manipulated me with the promise of love, when all they had to offer was emotional abuse. Mother wanted to keep me away from Greta because I was trying to protect her. I could expose my parents if I talked to cops, which I wouldn’t because I’d been brainwashed into believing cops would destroy my life. And, in the end, they did.”
“Carly—”
“I have lived with the oppressive brand of being a bad seed, a juvenile delinquent. Do you have any idea what that does to a person? To a child who was only trying to do the right thing out of love for her sister?”
He clenched his jaw and didn’t respond. Good, because she had more to say.
“I’ve been taking care of Mia for six months and she has flourished under my care,” she continued. “Your brother hired me despite my background because he believed in giving me another chance. He checked my references and was satisfied. I told him what had happened to me as a kid, and he was still satisfied. I didn’t have to, by the way. My juvenile record was expunged, so technically it never happened. My background didn’t bother your brother. I’ll go out on a limb here and guess he could relate, that he knew what it was like to need another chance, maybe even from his own family because he never mentioned you or your parents, or anyone else he was related to. Not once. So, before you cast aspersions on my dysfunctional mess of a family, you’d better be willing to take a hard look at your own. Now, if we’re done, Mia has a fever and I’m going to go cool her down with a damp washcloth.”
Not waiting for a response, she turned and went into Mia’s room.
* * *
Whit stood there, trying to process Carly’s diatribe.
Manipulative and emotionally abusive parents? Criminals? How had that information not popped up before now?
He pulled out his phone to call his tech person in Dallas. Hesitated. Glanced through the bathroom. A part of him wanted to take Carly at her word, believe everything she’d said. The detective part of him needed confirmation, so he made the call.
“How’s it going, Detective Whittaker?” Megan the tech answered.
“It’s been better.”
“Bored, huh?”
“Not exactly. I need a favor, a personal favor.”
“Go for it.”
“I need information on Carly Winslow, alias Garber. Late twenties, from Denver. Younger sister Greta.”
“Dating material?” Megan teased.
“Very funny. No, a person of interest. Carly has a juvenile record, expunged, which might help you track her down. Text me when you find something?”
“Of course. Stay out of trouble.”
“No promises.” He pocketed his phone. Whit needed to clear this up and decide if Carly was friend or enemy. Straddling the fence about whether to believe her or not was an uncomfortable place to be.
He hadn’t been on the fence twenty minutes ago. As he had sat at the dining table with her, he felt a strong, authentic connection. He reminded himself that was probably their dire situation coupled with his concussion that was messing with his judgment. Whit didn’t trust easily, nor did he open himself up to people too quickly, so why did he find himself wanting to trust Carly?
Because of the way she’d protected Mia. That wasn’t playacting. Carly was genuinely devoted to the child and right now the little girl needed that. She needed someone who loved her.
Love. He’d seen it Carly’s eyes when she held the baby, sang to her.
He couldn’t let that love distract him or cloud his objectivity. Whit needed to keep the protective walls up so he could see clearly, because the adorable blonde in the next room had a way of blowing his focus right out of the water, either with her effusive and seemingly innocent charm, or her defensive accusations.
So, before you cast aspersions on my dysfunctional mess of a family, you’d better be willing to take a hard look at your own.
She wasn’t wrong. Whit and Harry’s family had its own share of kinks and complications. Somehow, she’d homed in on that as well, on the fact that Harry had gotten himself into mischief as a teenager and needed his share of forgiveness from Whit’s mom and stepfather. Whit wasn’t around much during those years since he was committed to his law enforcement career, but he’d heard plenty from Mom, who’d asked Whit to come home and have a heart-to-heart with his little brother.
By the time Whit got a decent vacation and was able to get home, it was pretty clear that Harry had completely written off his older brother. The anger, the resentment brimming in Harry’s eyes, was obvious, and Whit knew why: because he’d failed him so miserably.
Harry’s accident when he was ten had been Whit’s fault, and seven years had been too long for Harry to wait for an apology, an explanation about why his older brother didn’t take better care of him.
Eyes brimming with angry tears, Harry had clenched his jaw tight, listened to Whit’s lecture on making better choices and didn’t utter a word. When Whit was done, Harry left the room and didn’t return home for three days, staying at a friend’s house until Whit left town. Harry’s anger had been justified at ten years old. By seventeen he should have gotten past it, not let it eat away at him and cause him to misbehave.
Really, Whit? Have you gotten over feeling ashamed about the incident? No, he hadn’t. He spent the last twenty years committing himself to the military and law enforcement, pro
bably hoping on some level that he’d bury the shame once and for all.
Look at me, Brody! I can fly!
Whit shook off the memory. Carly was right, Whit’s family wasn’t good at giving second chances or offering forgiveness. Which was another reason he’d decided to join the army at eighteen.
He needed to redeem himself.
“Why am I thinking about this?”
Because Carly had challenged him, she’d hit too close to home, especially considering she was a stranger.
A stranger who knew Whit’s brother better than Whit did. Ostracizing her was a bad idea. She held the key to his niece’s comfort and happiness, and maybe even had answers that could help them find Harry.
Whit should apologize to Carly, at least for his tone. She had to understand his motivation: he was driven by his love for his niece and the need to protect her.
He stepped into the makeshift nursery. “Carly?”
She glanced over her shoulder, swiping at her eyes. His gut twisted. He did that, upset her to the point of tears.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said.
“Whatever.”
“You have to understand where I’m coming from.”
“Sure, I understand. I’m used to it.”
“Cut me a little slack. Just when I start to trust you, something else pops up like the restraining order.”
“Not every answer is a simple one. A person’s past can be very, very complicated. I thought for sure you would understand that.”
A few seconds of silence stretched between them. “I’m very conflicted,” he confessed. “You obviously care deeply for Mia and have taken good care of her, but you have a record.”
Carly continued to brush the cool cloth across his niece’s cheeks and down her arms. She lifted Mia’s shirt to reveal a rash on her tummy.
“Fire me later,” she said. “We need to get her to a doctor.”
Mia whimpered, and a knot twisted in Whit’s gut. That sound, the sound of a child in pain, played havoc with his soul.
“I’ll find a local clinic,” he said.
Carly nodded and began to sing softly to the little girl.
“It’ll be okay,” he automatically said, wondering if he was saying the words more for himself than for Carly.
* * *
“How long has she had a fever?” Dr. Rutherford asked.
“On and off for a few days,” Carly answered, watching him check Mia’s eyes, ears and nose.
“And the rash?”
“Just started,” Carly said.
Thankfully Dr. Ken Rutherford, a local family practice doctor, was able to work them into his schedule. The nurse had led Carly, the baby and Whit directly into a room so Mia wouldn’t expose anyone else to whatever she was fighting.
It had been an awkward hour waiting for the doctor. Whit would try to engage Carly in conversation to which Carly would offer quick, one-syllable answers. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation, not only because she was worried about Mia, but also because she had constructed a wall between herself and Whit.
To think that after everything they’d been through, Whit had used a sharp, accusatory tone when questioning her about her past. She thought he had come around to believing in Carly, a little bit anyway.
She’d been so wrong.
“Appetite?” Dr. Rutherford asked.
“Still okay,” Carly answered.
“Actually, she didn’t eat much this morning for me,” Whit offered.
Carly snapped her gaze to him. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Whit studied Mia.
Carly answered a few more questions from the doctor, and he handed Mia back to Carly.
“When was the last time she had acetaminophen?” the doctor said.
“Yesterday.”
Dr. Rutherford looked at her questioningly, and shame flooded her cheeks.
“It’s my fault,” Whit said. “I was supposed to pick some up and forgot.”
“I’ll have the nurse give you some to hold you over until you can stop by the pharmacy,” the doctor said. “If the fever persists, keep her on acetaminophen every four to six hours. I suspect it will break with the worsening of the rash.”
“What’s causing the rash?” Carly asked.
“Mia has roseola.”
“Is that serious?” Whit said.
“No, not serious,” the doctor said. “It starts with a fever and ends with a rash.”
“Does she need special medication?” Whit said.
“It’s a virus that will run its course. I suspect the rash will clear in a few days and this little cutie pie will be back to normal.” He squeezed her foot playfully. “If not, give us a call.” The doctor left the room.
Carly sat Mia down on the examining table to put on her jacket. “Why didn’t you tell me she didn’t eat much this morning?” she said, not looking at Whit.
“I thought... I don’t know, that it was my fault.”
“Your fault?”
“That I was doing something wrong when I was feeding her.”
“Doubtful. Babies instinctively know what they need, and they aren’t shy about asking for it. If only adults were allowed to be so direct.”
She turned to Whit, holding the baby in her arms.
“If you were allowed to be direct, what would you say to me right now?” he asked.
She heard the challenge in his voice, yet wasn’t sure where he was going with this line of questioning. “I’d say I’m grateful that Mia only has roseola and nothing more serious.”
“And...?”
He was pushing her. Why?
“We should figure out what Mrs. B. was into, so we can help police solve this mess and get back to our lives,” Carly snapped.
“And...?”
“What do you want from me?”
“The truth.”
“Here we go again. You know, some of us have moved on with our lives and would like to keep our past where it belongs—in the past.”
“I’m not talking about your past,” he said.
“Well, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re upset with me.”
“No kidding.”
“Whatever happened to you as a kid, I’m sorry. Please try to see it from my perspective. If you were Mia’s aunt and you walked into this situation, wouldn’t you be just as protective and cautious as I’m being?”
He was right, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it because that would start to dissolve the walls she’d constructed around her heart.
“Let’s go.” She opened the examining room door.
A woman’s shriek echoed down the hall.
SEVEN
Whit stepped in front of Carly and shifted her and the baby behind him. “Stay back.”
“You’re not going out there,” she said.
It was a statement, not a question.
“You’ll be safe in the room,” he said.
“No, Whit. Don’t leave your niece.”
“She’s in good hands.”
“An hour ago you were questioning my integrity.”
“Let’s have this argument later. Call 9-1-1.” He looked at her. “Now.” He left the room and sneaked down the hall.
“It’s a simple question. Have you seen her?” a man shouted.
“No, I haven’t,” a woman said.
“If you’re lying to me—”
“She’s not lying,” Dr. Rutherford said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“That is your prerogative.”
The doc had guts, Whit thought.
“My prerogative?”
Another scream and gasps echoed down the hall. Whit wanted to avoid a shootout in the waiting room.
>
He turned the corner. A short stocky guy with black hair in his midforties had the doctor in a choke hold. The guy could easily snap the doc’s neck.
“He can’t answer if he can’t breathe,” Whit said.
The guy looked at Whit. “Another smart guy, huh?”
“Nope, just a patient.” He motioned to his arm in the sling.
The doc was digging his fingers into the guy’s arm, trying to get air.
“If you want him to talk, you’re gonna have to let go,” Whit said.
A few seconds passed. Whit hoped the perp didn’t snap the doc’s neck in front of his patients.
Trauma like that would never leave them.
Stocky Guy released the doctor and shoved him into the front desk. Rutherford collapsed on the floor, gasping for air.
“This kid, have you seen her?” He flashed a picture of Mia on his phone.
“Who is she?” Whit studied the image, pretending not to recognize his niece.
“It’s not important.”
“Must be if you’re committing assault.”
“Anyone seen her?” The guy flashed the image to the half a dozen patients in the waiting area.
Whit didn’t want to put these innocents at risk. If he drew his firearm, the perp could use one of them as a shield.
“No?” the guy said to each patient. “Then I’ll check for myself.” The perp yanked the doctor to his feet.
Pulled a gun from his shoulder holster.
He approached Whit, who blocked the doorway to the hall.
“Come on, man, this isn’t cool,” Whit said.
The guy pointed the gun at the doc’s head. “How about dead? Is dead cool?”
There was no way Whit would let the guy get anywhere near Carly and Mia’s room and he didn’t want the doc to be killed either.
“Take me,” Whit said. “People need the doc. Me, not so much.”
The guy considered his proposal and shoved the doctor away. He motioned for Whit to lead the way. As they approached examining room one, the muffled sound of a baby crying echoed down the hall.
