Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer

money another way.

      Ana’s blood raced at the possibility that she might uncover a real story at Haven. Oblivious to her thoughts, Sam hunkered down on the floor and picked up a length of pale blue yarn and a crochet hook. A girl—about ten, Ana guessed—leaned against his shoulder as she tried to show him how to loop the yarn onto the hook. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw rippling as he thumbed the delicate yarn.

      Why this fascination with children? Prickles of alarm shot through Ana like thin, sharp needles at the memory of the way Terell’s hand had rested on little Brandy’s leg. The unhappiness in the girl’s blue eyes was palpable. She had kissed him, but had he slapped her only moments before?

      “Tenisha, you’ve got me beat on this one,” Sam said, handing her the crochet hook and a tangle of yarn.

      “Aw, you can do it, Uncle Sam.” She looked up at him. “You just have to try.”

      “Tell you what, young lady. You play some basketball with me this afternoon—”

      “No, I—”

      “Now, don’t interrupt, Tenisha.” He held up a big index finger. “Remember the rules? Here’s a proposal for you. Try basketball this afternoon, and tomorrow I’ll come back and let you and Granny help me get started on crochet.”

      “But I can’t play basketball, Uncle Sam. I can’t run hardly at all, y’know.”

      “Well, how would I know that? I haven’t seen you ever try.”

      She gazed down in her lap for a moment, her face glum.

      “Do we have a deal?” he asked.

      “Okay,” she said in a tiny voice.

      “Great.” He gave her a solid pat on the back, and she brightened. Then he raised his voice to the other adult in the room. “Now, Granny, it’s time for activity change. These kids need to go try the tools.”

      “What you talkin’ ’bout, boy?” The elderly woman squinted at him over the top of her glasses. “Fry the rules?”

      “Tools!” he shouted, then muttered, “We’ve got to get you a hearing aid, Granny.”

      As the youngsters scampered to their feet, Ana watched Tenisha lose her balance and stumble into a boy’s path. He barked in anger and gave her a shove. At that, Sam reached down and lifted the boy off his feet.

      “Ladies first, Gerald,” he said as he held the youth high, giving Tenisha time to pick her way toward the door. Her unsteady gait revealed cerebral palsy, Ana surmised. So why had Sam Hawke urged the girl to attempt a sport that would only cause further embarrassment? Again, she felt the twinge of alarm and distrust.

      Waiting for the group to file toward the toolroom, Ana noticed a figure seated in a shadowy corner at the end of the row of doors. She took a couple of steps closer and discerned a pair of skinny legs emerging from a green skirt. The girl wore the requisite white T-shirt and a pair of pink plastic sandals. Her hair, pulled back into a long braid, gleamed like black silk. She blinked at Ana, her large brown eyes wide.

      “Hi.” Ana tried giving a little wave. She’d never been much good with children.

      The girl looked away.

      Well, that’s that.

      Turning back, Ana nibbled a fingernail as she waited for Sam to complete the activity change. If Haven was as positive a place as it proclaimed, an article on the center’s activities might make a good feature for the Everyday section. She would suggest it to the editor.

      Her own focus had to be the lead paint problem. Carl had wanted her to use Haven in the story, and she couldn’t very well turn it in without a single decent quote or even a pertinent fact or two about the place. She had to find out which parts of the building still contained the old paint, whether these children were at risk, how Sam intended to fix the problem, and where he would get the money to pay for it.

      If the other sources on her list proved as uncooperative as this one, she would be hard-pressed to finish the series in two weeks. The memory of her editor’s promised reaction to such a failure chilled her. She tried to put it out of her mind. Why think the unthinkable?

      As Sam stood at the door watching the new bunch of children settle in with Granny and her crocheting, Ana ventured another glance at the girl in the corner. Gazing back at the tall visitor, the child wore an expression of such emptiness, such sad hollowness, that Ana caught her breath. At the look on the girl’s face, a painful ache stirred to life inside Ana, and despite her best effort, she couldn’t immediately suppress it.

      “Don’t you want to crochet?” Ana blurted out. She pointed to Granny’s room. “They’ve started a new group.”

      The girl turned away in silence, her profile lovely and delicately haunting. Ana swallowed, wanting to go to the girl, to touch her somehow.

      “Got the room switch taken care of.” Sam Hawke’s voice at her ear startled Ana. “Miss Burns, I need to ask you to leave now. We don’t allow anyone but volunteers and kids in the building unless they have a good reason.”

      “I have a great reason,” she replied. “I want to interview you about your lead paint problem.”

      His blue eyes fastened on her, and she knew exactly how an ant must feel as someone’s heel bore down on it.

      “I’m not giving you an interview on Haven’s lead paint problem.” He enunciated each word as though she had as great a hearing loss as Granny. “Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

      “I’ve been assigned this story,” she said as he turned his back on her and started toward the offices. She strode after him. “Haven will benefit from it. It’s obvious you serve needy kids here. Like that girl in the corner—”

      “What girl?” He swung around.

      “Tut-tut. No interrupting, sir.” She gave him a mock salute, then gestured behind her. “Back there. In the shadows. Who is she?”

      He peered over Ana’s shoulder. “I haven’t been able to get her name. She showed up here a couple of weeks ago, but we can’t coax her out of the corner. She doesn’t speak English.”

      “Now see? If Haven had to shut down because of the lead paint, that child might not have a place to go.”

      “Haven is not going to shut down.”

      “How are you planning to fix the problem?”

      His face darkened. As a boy ran past with a basketball, Hawke snagged him. “Hey, Ramone, see Miss Burns to the door, would you?”

      “Yes, sir.” The young man smiled. “C’mon with me, ma’am. You got to check out before you can go. And we need your T-shirt, too.”

      Ana glared at Hawke’s broad-shouldered back as he headed toward his office. He thought he’d gotten rid of her. But he didn’t know Anamaria Burns.

      No, sir.

       He was staring through the window, thinking about what had happened in Springfield. Since the phone call from his associate three nights before, an acute pain had settled behind his eyes, and he had not slept well. Nothing could be resolved, of course, until he had more information.

       What exactly had occurred that night? Who had done it? How much was known?

       Despite the lack of details, he had begun working out his own answers to questions that might arise. He shouldn’t give the issue much weight, he reminded himself, because he really hadn’t been involved. The incident had occurred in another state, and he wasn’t responsible for it. If people didn’t take proper precautions, trouble usually found them, and they had no one but themselves to blame. Long ago, he had learned that he could not depend on anyone but himself to take care of things. No one had ever looked out for him, yet see how far he had come.

       People counted on him now, and this gave