* * *
HE WANTED TO grab his son out of his chair with both arms, shield him against his chest and run. But instead Jem led the drably dressed woman slowly down a hall to the old kitchen he’d remodeled himself in his spare time when Tressa had been pregnant with Levi.
He couldn’t panic. Not yet.
Not if someone was hurting his boy. Possible suspects ran through his mind. The only people he knew who had access to Levi besides himself were preschool workers and his mother. No one who would hurt him.
And who’d called?
Tressa sprang to mind again. But would she really go that far? She’d pulled some questionable shit a time or two, but only to lash out at him.
As far as he knew, she didn’t have any reason to be pissed with him right then. Things had been good. Better than they’d been in years...
And then something else dawned on him. Social services, child protective services, could take his son away from him if they felt the choice was warranted.
Surely Ms. Hamilton wasn’t there with that thought in mind. Levi was his son. His life. No one was going to take better care of the boy than he did.
Or love him like he did.
She had to have some kind of real proof...
Didn’t she?
Ready to grab the woman back, to haul her ass through his house and put her firmly but kindly outside his front door and then lock it behind her, Jem could only s
tand and watch as she rounded the corner, went through the archway to the kitchen and approached the table.
“Hi, Levi, I heard about you, and your dad said it was okay if I came to meet you.”
He’d heard of a devil in sheep’s clothing. Had quite possibly grown up with one, in the form of his older sister.
And hoped to hell he hadn’t just let one into his son’s world.
CHAPTER FOUR
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” Levi asked.
Lacey understood, the first second she heard that little voice, what Mara had been telling her about Levi’s precociousness. In a perfectly serious tone, he sounded as self-assured as his father had done. All mixed in with soft r’s and a spaghetti-sauce-smeared face.
It took her two seconds to put that sauce together with the stains on the front of Mr. Bridges’s shirt. Had there been some kind of physical tussle with the boy? Was that how Bridges could be so certain his son wouldn’t move out of his chair?
“I’m Lacey,” she said, taking a seat at the big butcher-block table with the little boy. His father’s place, empty dirty plate with silverware sitting neatly in the middle of it, was within easy reach of Levi. “Lacey Hamilton.”
The boy stared at her. “You have blond hair.”
She said, “Yep,” and smiled. She was good with kids. Always had been. Which was part of the reason she’d chosen to go into social work.
“I have a broken arm,” he said, holding up his cast as he pursed his lips.
He’d been crying. She could see the streaks left by his tears. And had to wonder...
As if just noticing the telltale streak marks himself, Jeremiah appeared from over by the sink. “Let’s get your face wiped up, buddy.” He had a wet paper towel in hand.
“I can do it.” Levi took it from his father, lifted his chin and scrubbed at his face. He then handed the cloth back to his father and held his hand up to him.
Jeremiah wiped each finger. “You through eating?” he asked. The plate in front of the boy was scattered with stray strands of spaghetti, but mostly empty.
“Is that enough bascetti for ice cream?”