His First Choice. Tara Quinn Taylor

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.

      In rare circumstances, an in-home advocate could be placed on a temporary basis...

      “Levi was climbing up her bookcase to get a video he wanted to watch. I’ve suggested to her that she keep his videos on the lower shelves where he can reach them, but she says that that makes them too accessible to him and he’d be watching them all the time.”

      She waited, listening in between the lines. Clearly Bridges was experiencing a gap in parenting philosophy with his ex-wife, which could create stress and confusion for a child. But the gap alone didn’t break arms. Or bruise little bodies.

      “When she saw him up there, she got scared that he might fall and grabbed him to help him down.”

      Then what, she dropped him? The story was almost believable. Lacey waited for the fall.

      “Unfortunately, instead of grabbing him around his middle, Tressa just grabbed his arm...” His voice fell off, as if that explained it all.

      “You’re trying to tell me that your ex-wife’s grasp was so strong she broke your son’s arm in two places?”

      “No. She didn’t have a firm enough grip to support his weight, and he fell off the shelf. It was an accident. Believe me, if Tressa had been rough with him, if I thought that she would in any way hurt him, I’d be in court to sue for full custody yesterday.”

      It was hard not to believe him. But...

      “So why won’t Levi talk about it?”

      “Because he knew he wasn’t supposed to be climbing up on the shelves. He’s already been firmly spoken to about misbehaving and knows that he’s living with the consequences of having done so. I think at this point he just wants the whole thing to go away. He doesn’t want anyone else reading him the riot act. Levi’s usually a great kid. He takes it personally when he screws up.”

      So maybe it was a great cover-up story. Maybe Bridges