Handprints. Myrna Temte

to Kitty.”

      “I wanted her to know she’s important to me,” Abby said. “And I didn’t want her to worry that I was upset with her because I turned down her Mother’s Day gift.”

      “I appreciate that. She obviously likes you.”

      He didn’t say that he didn’t like her, but the implication was there in the air between them. Yet he seemed more open to a discussion about Kitty now than he had earlier. Abby took a deep breath, then plunged right in.

      “Look, Mr. Granger, we’re supposed to be on the same side, here. Don’t you think we can find a way to work together to help Kitty?”

      “You’d think so.” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, then reached for another cookie. “We don’t seem to agree on much, though.”

      “We don’t have to.” Abby tilted her head to one side, shaking it when he offered her the cookie plate. “I thought the way Kitty acted tonight was promising.”

      “In what way?”

      “It was refreshing to see her act so much like a regular kid tonight.”

      “Well, she is a regular kid.”

      Abby gaped at him. “How can you say that after seeing what just happened to her?”

      “Nothing happened to her. What are you talking about?”

      “She was giggly and lively for a while. She used to be that way all the time, didn’t she?”

      Impatience—or perhaps it was defensiveness—sharpened his voice. “What’s your point?”

      “Tonight I saw the little girl I’ll bet Kitty used to be. She needs to become that little girl again if she’s going to have a happy life. She should be animated and obnoxious and argue for what she wants like any other kid, instead of being that overly polite, sad little ghost who just left the room.”

      “You’re exaggerating.”

      “I’m not. You sat right there and saw it yourself. When you refused to let me see her room, all of that life and fun drained right out of her.”

      “Are you saying that I should never say no to her?”

      “Of course not. But would it really have hurt—”

      “Ms. Walsh,” he interrupted. “We’re not going to get anywhere with this tonight, so you’ll have to excuse me. Thank you for your concern, but I need to go and take care of my daughter.”

      “Fine.” Abby carried her plate and mug to the sink and set them beside Kitty’s.

      Mr. Granger escorted her to the front door and held it open for her. Unable to resist, she pointed at the stack of papers he’d left sitting on the entry table. “Do study those learning targets, and you’ll see how much farther Kitty needs to go. If you change your mind about getting her into counseling, let me know. I have several excellent people I can recommend.”

      “Good night, Ms. Walsh.”

      “Good night, Mr. Granger.”

      She hurried down the steps, climbed into her Bronco and turned the key in the ignition, pausing a moment to take one last look at the Grangers’ house. Mr. Granger had already gone inside and shut the front door. There were lights on in one of the upstairs rooms, and, looking at the window, Abby could make out the shape of Kitty’s head. A little hand came up and waved at her.

      Abby waved back. She still had three full weeks of school left. In that amount of time, she’d find a way to help Kitty, whether Mr. Granger liked it or not. And while she was at it, she was going to help him, too.

      He’d always seemed so strong and sure of himself, she’d never actually thought of him as someone in pain. Though he obviously was in deep denial where Kitty was concerned, Abby believed there was hope for him yet. She didn’t doubt for a second that once he saw for himself what Kitty needed, he would move heaven and earth to get it for her. Now all Abby had to do was find a way to get him to see his daughter in a more realistic light.

      She was going to have to behave herself, though. She couldn’t afford to fool herself about the attraction she felt for both the Grangers, but especially for Jack. A true professional wouldn’t have even noticed how sexy he could be when he wasn’t acting like a grumpface.

      Chapter Three

      Three hours later, Jack sat at his desk, plowing through the files he’d brought home. He needed concentration to commit the important facts of each case to memory, but tonight it wasn’t there. He tossed down his pen in frustration, then heard a low cry coming from upstairs.

      He took the stairs three at a time, entered Kitty’s room and stood watching her. She’d kicked off her covers, her hair was plastered to her forehead with perspiration and parallel tear trails glistened on her flushed cheeks. Her head thrashing back and forth, she repeatedly whimpered the one word guaranteed to rip his heart right down the middle.

      “Mommyyyy.”

      Kitty had cried in her sleep every night for five months after Gina’s death. The memories of that time still had the power to bring him to his knees. Lord, he couldn’t stand it if she started doing this again. He picked up Kitty and cuddled her against his chest, stroking her hair.

      “Shh, Kitten,” he crooned. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

      “Mommy.”

      “I know, baby. I know. I miss her, too.”

      Shivering, she heaved a huge, wobbly sigh, rested her cheek against his shoulder, then snuggled closer. He kissed the top of her head, rubbing her back and rocking her. When she relaxed into that boneless state only children achieve, he lay her in the middle of her bed and pulled the covers over her.

      He stood there, anxiously watching. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had brought this on. He’d like to strangle that pint-size buttinsky teacher and her blasted Mother’s Day project for stirring up memories and emotions that were better left alone. Kitty shouldn’t have to suffer one more second of pain over her mother’s death.

      Ms. Walsh could just butt right back out of their lives, because Kitty was all right, dammit. And he would prove it to that little woman. The best way to do that was to get Kitty caught up with the rest of her classmates.

      Hurrying downstairs, he found the stack of papers Ms. Walsh had delivered, took them into the den and settled in behind his desk. Good grief, there were learning targets for reading and math, for writing, social studies, physical education, music and art, even behavior. It seemed like an awful lot of things for such little kids to have to learn in one school year.

      He flipped back to the math section. “Recognizes and writes numerals from 1 to 100,” he read. “Counts sets of objects less than 100 using a variety of grouping strategies such as twos, fives and tens. Verbalizes and records addition and subtraction problems.”

      The list went on. Trying to guess how many of those things Kitty could do gave him a hollow feeling in the middle of his chest. Could she do any of them? Not enough. Well, damn. They’d have to work on this stuff, of course, but what if she really couldn’t retain the things she learned? What if she truly was depressed?

      No, that was ridiculous. Kitty wasn’t depressed. He would know if she was in serious trouble. Of course, he would.

      Slowly and much more carefully, he reread the papers, going all the way to the bottom of the stack. The last page was the infamous Mother’s Day gift. At least, he thought that was what it must be. He held it up with both hands.

      The single, wrinkled page had a recent photo of Kitty, a set of her handprints done in bright red paint and a poem.

      HANDPRINTS

      You like a shiny, tidy house,

      And sometimes I do too.

      But