The Word of a Child. Janice Johnson Kay

      Please call Detective McLean.

      Mariah was not surprised to find a pink message slip in her mail cubby. Did he feel any guilt about making accusations he could never prove? Or did he believe that he held no blame for the disruption left in his wake?

      She stared with burning eyes at his name, then crumpled the slip in her fist. It would be a cold day in hell before she’d ever call him.

      She was glad she’d come early, so she had time to compose herself before her first class poured into her room. She paused to look at a wall mural lovingly created by one of her former students.

      Her students liked her. Remembered her. Trusted her.

      Tracy Mitchell had trusted her. Had come to her for help. How could she let one of her students down because her own scars weren’t fully healed?

      Tracy had promise she would likely never fulfill. But it was there, and teachers were sometimes wrong about who would succeed or fail. The teenager did not deserve to be blackmailed, to have to feel that this, of all things, was her fault.

      With a sigh, Mariah went to her desk and dug in her tote for her cell phone. Apparently despite the sunlight, it was really a cold day. A very, very cold day.

      Somewhere.

      Dear Reader,

      This book continues the story begun in His Partner’s Wife about three brothers who felt compelled to become cops because of their father’s senseless murder. The Word of a Child touches on the damage done to lives by sexual abuse, but most of all it’s about trust and the suspicions that undermine love. What if you suspect your husband or parent or child of having done something terrible? Do you accuse them and find out you were wrong to trust them? We all want to believe that our family will always back us, will always assume accusations are wrong, will always believe the best until proved otherwise.

      So what if you not only fear the worst about someone you love, but you never learn the truth? What does it do to that person, and to you?

      These, of course, are the kinds of questions that fascinate me as a writer. I love the consequences that spread like ripples, touching so many other people. Sometimes I secretly suspect we authors are always writing about ourselves, on some level: How would I react? What would I say? Feel?

      Hey, who needs psychoanalysis? Just write a few books! But you notice that I cut myself a break and always allow my characters to discover the deep, priceless love that gives our lives meaning.

      My hope is that you, too, will find not just escape but occasional self-discovery in the pages of my books.

      Sincerely,

      Janice Kay Johnson

      The Word of a Child

      Janice Kay Johnson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      With thanks to my wonderful editors at Superromance,

       Laura Shin and Paula Eykelhof, who encourage me to write the books that matter.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      PROLOGUE

      MARIAH STAVIG HAD NO reason to fear the unexpected knock on the door. Her husband and daughter were safely at home; she’d hung up the telephone from speaking to her mother not five minutes before. She felt only mild surprise and curiosity about who might be stopping by at seven-thirty in the evening.

      Strangers, she discovered, had come calling in the form of a very large man in a dark suit and a pleasant-faced older woman, neither of whom she knew. Which were they selling, vacuum cleaners or religion?

      “May I help you?” she asked.

      “Are you Mariah Stavig?”

      Puzzlement replaced her initial annoyance at the intrusion. “Yes, I am.”

      The man flipped open a leather case to show a police badge. “I’m Detective Connor McLean from the Port Dare PD.”

      The woman displayed identification. “Gail Cooper from Child Protective Services. May we speak with you and your husband? Is he home?”

      Beginning to feel wary, Mariah said, “Yes, he’s watching the Mariners.”

      Neither asked about the score, even though the game was critical to the Seattle Mariners making it to the World Series and most people were at least mildly interested.

      “What is it?” Mariah asked. “Is something wrong?”

      “It might be best if we spoke to you and your husband together,” the woman said.

      “Well, then…” Apprehension raised a lump in her throat as she backed up. “Come in.”

      They followed her into the living room. Simon, a man with dark hair and the broad cheekbones of his Slavic heritage, tore his gaze from the TV and stood politely. Three-year-old Zofie, in the midst of tumbled plastic blocks and miniature people spread over the carpet, paused with a red block in one hand and stared at the visitors.

      Mariah swallowed but failed to dispel the lump. “Simon, this is Detective McLean from the Port Dare police and Ms., um…”

      “Cooper,” the woman said pleasantly. “Gail Cooper. I’m from Child Protective Services.”

      His expression didn’t change, but Mariah felt her husband’s immediate tension. She supposed she was feeling it herself. It was so strange, having a police officer and a social worker drop by without calling, and at this time of the day.

      “What do you want with us?” he asked. “Is this about someone we know?”

      “In a way.” Ms. Cooper smiled at Zofie, who was alarmed enough to scramble to her feet and race to clutch her mother’s leg. “It might be best if we could talk without your daughter hearing.”

      Real fear gripped Mariah now. Not questioning the suggestion, she boosted Zofie into her arms. “Honey, I need you to play in your room for a minute, while Mommy and Daddy talk to these people.” She started down the hall, as though her request was matter-of-fact, keeping her voice soft. “Okay?”

      Zofie popped her thumb into her mouth and stared over Mariah’s shoulder at the strangers until her mother turned into the toddler’s bedroom.

      Mariah set her on the floor beside her small table and chair. “I loved the drawing you made today. Can you draw me a new picture?”

      Zofie hesitated, then sat down. Around her thumb, she mumbled, “Okay.”

      “I’ll leave the door open so you can call if you need me.”

      Thumb out of her mouth, the three-year-old was already reaching into her crayon box. “Okay,” she said again, obligingly. Thank heavens, she was almost always good-natured and compliant.

      Simon