His First Choice

Other than giving her a sign that she wasn’t dealing with someone currently drunk or obviously down on his luck.

Well-to-do, well-dressed, gorgeous fathers abused their kids. And cowboys with stained shirts could, too.

“May I come in?” she asked. If he refused, she’d get a warrant. Then there’d be a strike against him in her estimation.

“Of course.” He stepped back.

Once she was inside, she could see the living room and what looked like a smaller living area with books and a piano off to her right. The home was one of the older, antebellum-type houses that dotted the town of Santa Raquel. But where the big mansions on the beach, and across from the beach, carried seven-figure price tags, Bridges’s home was farther inland. And not quite as large.

“What can I do for you?”

The contractor stood directly in front of her. Arms crossed. Defensive and possibly aggressive posture. Daring her to come in any farther?

She’d followed protocol, had logged her intent to make the home visit and had her phone’s GPS location on. Her whereabouts could be traced. If he tried anything untoward, he’d get caught.

Still, she could have waited for another agent to accompany her. If she’d been so inclined. If she’d have been able to sleep without assuring herself that little Levi wasn’t in immediate danger.

She could also have called the police—they often partnered on child protective services cases that involved anything of a criminal nature.

Looking around, taking her time to answer the man still standing guard over his home, Lacey assimilated as she’d been trained to do.

She didn’t have definitive proof of illegal activity. But Mara had noticed finger-shaped bruising weeks ago.

A broken arm could indicate escalating injury. She wasn’t frightened, just cautious by nature.

“My office received a phone call,” she started slowly, softly, as she heard sounds coming from a room in the back of the house. A utensil dropping on a table or counter?

“Is your son here?”

“Of course he’s here. He lives here.”

“May I see him?”

Frowning, the man studied her. “I need to see some picture identification. Anyone can have cards printed up.”

Reaching into her black strapped leather satchel, she pulled out her badge and handed it to him.

Apparently he was cautious by nature, too.

Or stalling while he tried to figure out what to do?

Nodding, he handed the card back to her. “You said you had a phone call.”

Someone was tapping a rhythm—thump, thump, thump.

She nodded, taking a step toward the sound. “May I see your son?”

“Of course you can. But I’d like to know why first.”

“Clap along...nah nah nah nah das what you wanna do...” The faint sound of the childish voice interrupted them from the distance and Lacey stared in the direction her feet wanted her to go.

“Pharrell Williams,” she said. The song “Happy” was one she played full blast in her car on those days when her job seemed heavier than she was.

The tapping continued, not at all in rhythm with the words. The tune wasn’t bad, though.

“He’s a little off beat,” Jeremiah Bridges said. “And he’s supposed to be eating, so I need to get back to him before I have spaghetti sauce splattered on the walls in line with those beats.”

The sounds continued. And Lacey’s suspicious mind wondered if Mr. Bridges had somehow triggered his son’s impromptu performance for her benefit. Except that he’d have had no way to do so. He hadn’t known she was coming. No one outside the logbook in the office had.