THE WORD OF A CHILD

by Janice Kay Johnson

  How could she ever take back what she'd said, when she couldn't tell the truth?

  Eventually, feeling gray and weak and almost numb, Tracy washed her face without looking in the mirror at the person she hated, and went back to class.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  When Mariah laid the gentle hand on Tracy's shoulder, she'd seen the tears spring into the seventh-grader's eyes. The sight unsettled Mariah for the rest of the day. Tracy hadn't cried when she told the story in the first place. Was the investigation itself increasing her trauma? Or was something else going on? Were kids being mean? Surely not the teachers! Or was poor Tracy simply feeling … fragile?

  After her last class, Mariah gathered the papers her eighth-graders had written about Farewell to Manzanar and stowed them in her tote. She should be planning for tomorrow, when she would be starting new units in two of her classes. Instead she glanced over her nearly bare desk, even though she wasn't really looking for anything.

  Lockers were still clanging in the hall, voices calling to friends, feet thudding on the ancient floor. She wouldn't have noticed a footfall, but out of the corner of her eye she saw someone fill the doorway. With a sense of inevitability, Mariah looked up to see Detective Connor McLean walk in and close the door behind him.

  Her eyebrows rose at his assumption that she wanted, or at least was willing, to be closeted with him.

  "Yes?" she said, with a hint of tartness.

  "I need help," he said bluntly, standing just inside the door.

  Her heart skittered, a peculiar sensation that left her breathless. Why him? she begged, but got no answer. "In what way?"

  He sighed and walked toward her, not a handsome man, but one possessing a quality of powerful masculinity expressed without swaggers. She couldn't imagine him picking a fight, even shouting. He didn't have to. His control was so complete, it alone was intimidating. Banked fires, she thought, burned hotter than those that leaped for the sky.

  He said, "I'm hoping you'll talk to Tracy again."

  "You mean, encourage her to talk to me," Mariah said slowly. "And then tell you what she says."

  "She's not going to open up to me."

  Mariah clasped her hands on her desk. "Did it ever occur to you that she's telling the truth?"

  "Yeah, it occurred to me. Maybe she is." Those brawny shoulders moved. "I just think there's something she isn't telling."

  "Don't you have a female officer on your force who could talk to her?"

  He stopped in front of her desk, four square and unavoidable. "She knows you. Trusts you."

  Emotions tangled, Mariah said, "I don't want to betray her."

  "How can settling this be a betrayal?"

  "I don't know!" She shot to her feet and walked to the windows, partly to escape him. A packed yellow bus lumbered onto the street, cars crowded the curb as parents picked up kids, walkers dawdled on the lawn to flirt while others dodged traffic to hurry away from the hated school.

  She felt him behind her, so close she was afraid to take a deep breath.

  "'The truth will set you free,'" he murmured.

  What if she knew the truth about Simon and Lily Thalberg? Would she be free of this burden of guilt whatever the answer? Or would the knowledge of Simon's innocence increase the load a hundred-fold?

  "All right," she said abruptly. "But I'll tell her that it's not confidential, that you've asked me to talk to her."

  To his credit, he didn't hesitate. "Thank you."

  "I take it you're getting nowhere."

  "The high school kid who came to the dance didn't rape her."

  Mariah swung around, stepping back at the same time so that she bumped the windowsill. He hadn't been as close as she'd imagined, but still she felt … crowded.

  "What about the mother's boyfriends?"

  He appeared relaxed but watchful. "There isn't one right now."

  "But there was a couple of weeks ago."

  "If he raped Tracy, why didn't she accuse him?" he asked patiently.

  Mariah hugged herself. "I don't know."

  He must be wondering why she was so perturbed. Lines furrowed his brow. "Do you still think I'm out to railroad Tanner?"

  Mariah heaved a sigh. "No. I think … you're fair."

  He didn't move. "Was I fair to your husband?"

  The tangle of emotions seemed to be tightening into a solid knot. "I don't know. Maybe."

  "Think," he said quietly, "about why you left him."

  "Because I couldn't be sure…" Her voice shook. "For Zofie's sake…"

  "I've investigated a lot of complaints like the one against your husband." He sounded thoughtful, a man musing aloud about a subject that had perplexed him. "Almost always, the wives back their husbands one hundred percent. Did you know that? Even when the son of a bitch has had every one of their daughters, night in and night out, the mothers deny that their husbands are guilty."

  Her fingers bit into her upper arms. "Why are you telling me this?" Mariah whispered. "Don't you know how I already despise myself for not supporting Simon?"

  "Yeah," he said. "I've gathered that."

  "'The truth will set you free,'" she quoted bitterly. "But what if I never know the truth?"

  "I think you already do." His voice was soft, lethal. "Or at least, the truth that counts to you. Here's my question, Mariah Stavig. Why didn't you trust your husband?"

  She stared. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  Because you scared me. Because I always want everything in words, everything laid out, nothing unspoken. Because I'm not a loyal wife.

  How many times had she asked herself the same question? How many times had she answered it, always in terms of herself, her own doubts and inadequacies.

  She had always begun with the immutable fact that Simon was her husband. He deserved her support and faith. She had never turned the question on its side and asked, Did I not trust him, not love him, even before I heard Detective McLean say those terrible words?

  Of course their marriage hadn't been perfect. Was any? But to believe something so dreadful…

  "You're saying … that I knew…?" She trembled between shock and anger.

  Connor shook his head. "I'm not saying anything. Only you know why you had reason to doubt him."

  Mariah glared at him. "Why did you really come up here today?"

  "To ask you…" He stopped. Swallowed. Rubbed the back of his neck. "To see you."

  The confirmation of what she had guessed rocked her. "To see me?" Did she have to sound as if that was such an unlikely possibility?

  He gave a painful smile. "I didn't make a big enough fool of myself the other day?"

  "Fool?" She was beginning to feel stupid.

  His gray eyes searched her face. "I wish we were meeting for the first time."

  Her breathing was shallow, ragged. "I don't understand."

  "I think you do." He rubbed his neck again, seeming to hesitate. Then he took a swift step forward, gripped her chin and lifted her face.

  She had one fleeting glimpse of his eyes darkening, the twist of his mouth, the taut line of his jaw, before his mouth touched hers with startling gentleness. He brushed her lips, came back and did it again. Heat rushed to her belly and her knees almost buckled. She made a peculiar little sound, perhaps a whimper, and parted her lips so that he was able to kiss her properly. No, not properly at all, but slowly, deeply, his tongue sliding along hers, and oh, she was kissing him back, she knew she was, but couldn't seem to do anything to stop herself.

  She clutched his powerful shoulders and felt the muscles harden beneath her hands. His cheek rasped hers, and the groan that tore from his chest as he lifted his head weakened her further.

  "That," he said in a raw voice, "is why I came up here."

  "Are you … are you supposed to kiss someone involved in…"

  "I'm not investigating you," he interrupted. His fingers flexed on her jaw, and he abruptly kissed her again, hard
, before he released her and stepped back.

  Mariah sagged against the windowsill. The contact brought her to a panicked awareness of where they were. "What if one of the kids outside saw?"

  "I'm not a student. I'm not another teacher or an administrator. Don't teachers kiss their husbands or boyfriends?"

  "You're not…"

  A muscle jumped beneath his eye. "But I want to be."

  She stared helplessly at him. "This is crazy! I hated you! Did you know that?"

  "Yeah." His voice became soft, almost blurred, as he wiped it of all expression. "People often do."

  She bit her lip. It felt swollen, tender. She wanted to touch it, to marvel at long-forgotten sensations. "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Very." He looked much as usual, a big man with a stern face, but she had the sense that he was holding himself rigidly, braced for rejection.

  "What…" Mariah had to clear her throat. "What is it you want?"

  Of course she'd set herself up for the obvious. Humor came into his eyes, then as quickly left, leaving an expression of vulnerability. "For now, let's just say … the pleasure of your company. Would you go out to dinner with me, Mariah?"

  A date.

  "Zofie…"

  "Would she mind a baby-sitter? Or is this Simon's weekend with Zofie?"

  "We had to switch weekends. She's home." Mariah swallowed, then blurted, "I haven't dated since—" She clamped her mouth shut.

  He looked startled. "In three years?"

  "It just hasn't felt right."

  He said nothing for a moment, only stood there with his hands at his sides. At last he asked quietly, "Does it feel right now?"

  Mariah took a breath. "I don't know. But I will have dinner with you."

  It was a second before he reacted, first blinking, then with a subtle relaxation of the muscles of his face. He looked less hard, less remote. "Thank you."

  "When do you…?"

  "What about Friday?"

  That gave her four days to become terrified. She gave a jerky nod. "Okay."

  "I'll pick you up at six?"

  "Okay," she said again. She restrained herself from asking what she should wear. Half the girls in this school would have handled this with more social deftness! They knew how dressy any particular occasion would be. She must have known, once upon a time.

  "You'll talk to Tracy, too?"

  "Tomorrow," Mariah promised.

  Connor nodded. He'd jammed his hands into the pockets of his corduroy slacks. His shoulders were slightly hunched. Was he again trying to be physically unobtrusive?

  "You think I'm scared of you," she guessed aloud.

  His brows rose. "What?"

  "You look like one of my students when he's trying to be invisible."

  His shoulders squared, and he smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. I've learned to make myself as unimposing as possible when I want someone's cooperation."

  "You've never frightened me."

  Furrows deepened on his forehead. "You sure as hell looked scared to death that day you saw me in Ms. Patterson's office."

  "Shocked," she corrected him. "You brought it all back."

  He watched her. "Is that so bad?"

  "No," Mariah surprised herself by saying. "I'm starting to think maybe it's been a good thing. I had let it all turn into … oh, the monster hiding in the closet."

  "What's in there instead?" he asked quietly.

  She tried to laugh. "A mess! What else?"

  There was the kindness in his eyes that she thought she was falling in love with. "It's all spilling out, huh?"

  "Yup." She laughed again, more successfully this time. "Like I say, a cleanup is probably overdue."

  "Good for you."

  Mariah tilted her head. "You never talk like a cop. Do you know that?"

  She'd jolted him. "What do you mean?"

  "Have you ever in your life shouted, 'Freeze! Drop that gun'?"

  His very sexy mouth twitched. "Uh, no. Now that you mention it, I don't think the occasion has arisen."

  "I know hardly anything about you," she realized. "You poke and prod at me, but you don't give much away about yourself."

  "Maybe I'm not very interesting."

  "You're trying to hide your boring personality?" She amazed herself by teasing.

  "Something like that." He sounded rueful. "Okay. Fair's fair. I know more about you than you do about me. We'll remedy that Friday. I promise."

  "Good." The windowsill was beginning to feel awfully sharp-edged digging into her behind, but she felt safest glued to it. Not that she was scared of him; she'd told the truth about that. It was more what he made her feel that unnerved her.

  Why him? she wondered again.

  "I'll call you tomorrow?" Connor said. Asked. As if he needed her permission.

  "Okay."

  He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then dipped his head in a brief nod and left. Mariah had a moment of crushing disappointment that he hadn't kissed her again, even if she was framed in the classroom windows, in plain sight of the entire student body.

  He'd kissed her the first time to make a point, perhaps to make her face her own feelings. Their relationship really hadn't progressed to the kissing hello and goodbye stage.

  Their relationship.

  A shivery, exhilarating kind of terror swelled in her chest, and Mariah heard herself breathing fast, in small gasps, as if she had just raced up all four flights of stairs. She was going on a date, with the man who had caused her more emotional turmoil than anyone in her life ever had. Except perhaps Simon.

  The very thought of her ex-husband chilled her, turning the butterflies in her stomach into nausea.

  She wasn't the only one who had hated Detective Connor McLean. Simon would be enraged if he found out she was dating the police officer who had accused him. He already harbored so much anger and bitterness. Was it fair to do something that would upset him so terribly?

  Here's my question, Mariah Stavig. Why didn't you trust your husband?

  How Simon reacted to her decisions about her own life wasn't her problem, she told herself defiantly. She wasn't married to him anymore.

  And this wasn't the time to confront the queasy, uneasy realization that, for the first time in the three years since she had asked him to leave, Mariah didn't know for sure why she wasn't still married to Simon.

  But learning the answer could be all-important, not just for herself but for Zofie's sake.

  Zofie. Mariah glanced at the clock. Heavens! She was late already.

  She hurried to check that she had grabbed everything she needed to grade papers tonight and prepare for tomorrow's classes, then left the room. As she pulled the door closed, Mariah paused over her own reflection in the glass inset. Were her lips softer, fuller, because she had been kissed? For a moment she indulged herself by pressing her fingertips to her mouth, remembering. Then, shaking her head at her own foolishness, she walked quickly down the hall, her heels clicking on the scuffed floor, trying very hard to ignore a renewed swelling of exhilaration and almost-fear.

  "I'm going to be honest with you," Ms. Stavig said quietly. "I won't—I can't—keep anything you tell me confidential. But I hope you'll talk to me anyway."

  Tracy fingered the zipper pull on her backpack. "What do you want to know?" she asked warily.

  "Just … how you're doing." The teacher's face was kind. "I know rumors have gotten around. They always do. How are the other kids treating you?"

  Tracy shrugged. "Like always. Mostly."

  "Mostly?"

  "Some guys have said things. You know." They'd leave her alone if she cried, but she wouldn't. If they wanted to think she was a slut, let them. Maybe she would be one. Didn't most kids take after their mothers? Maybe she wouldn't be able to help it. Ms. Stavig looked mad. "Have you reported them?"

  Tracy rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, like that'd make me popular."

  "It might be good for them to hear a few home truths."

  Tracy shrugged and
kept playing with the zipper pull.

  "Your friends?"

  "They're cool."

  There was a small silence. Tracy didn't look up. "What about your mother, Tracy? Is she being supportive?"

  A hand clamped around her chest. "I guess," she mumbled.

  "Has she considered getting you into counseling?"

  Tracy shook her head. Tears burned at the back of her eyes.

  "I know your mother works nights. I worry about you home alone. Are you scared? Or sad?"

  She was glad her mother wasn't home. But scared, too, in case he came back. Mom kept saying she guessed she should change the locks, but Tracy could tell it was one of those things Mom would never do. Tracy always put the chain on the door, but she knew from TV shows that any guy could snap one of those in a second if he really wanted in.

  "Scared. Sometimes," she said, her head down.

  Ms. Stavig's hand came out to cover hers. "Does your mom have a boyfriend right now?"

  Tracy's eyes widened and her head snapped up. "What do you mean?" she almost yelled.

  The teacher looked startled. "Why … nothing. Only that it might especially bother you now if a strange man moved into your apartment."

  Another guy who would check her out when she went down the hall in her nightgown or who would just happen to glance in when her bedroom door was open. Who would press too close when he passed her in the kitchen, or make a big deal out of hugging her or pulling her down to sit on his lap and her mom would smile because they were being fatherly, only Tracy could feel the woody pushing up against her butt.

  Staring fiercely down at her pack, Tracy said, "Mom hasn't found anybody yet."

  "Do the boyfriends ever … bother you?" Ms. Stavig said it delicately, as though it weren't really a subject fit for Tracy's ears, but as if she felt she had to ask.

  Bother her.

  She tried to look blank. "What do you mean?"

  Surprising Tracy with her bluntness, Ms. Stavig said, "Make sexual advances."

  "Like … like Mr. Tanner did, you mean?" His name stack in her throat, but she forced it out.

  The teacher pushed her soft brown hair back from her face. "More or less. Have any of them … oh, looked at you the way Mr. Tanner did, before he made advances?"