Magic Hour
He parked in the garage, beside the Harley-Davidson “fat boy” motorcycle that was his favorite toy, and went into the house.
Inside, he flipped the light switches.
Emptiness greeted him.
There were precious few pieces of furniture in the great room: to the left was a huge pine table with a single chair at one end. A gorgeous river-rock fireplace covered the eastern wall, its mantel empty of decoration. In front of it was an oxblood leather sofa, a battered coffee table, and a beautiful wooden cabinet.
Max tossed his coat on the sofa, then felt beneath the cushions for a remote.
Within moments a plasma TV screen rose up from the custom-made rosewood cabinet. He clicked it on. It didn’t matter what was on the screen. All he cared about was the noise. He hated a quiet house.
He went upstairs, took a quick shower, and changed his clothes.
He was at the steamy mirror, shaving, when he thought about her again.
The pierced ear.
He put down his razor slowly, staring at the tiny dot in his ear. It was barely visible anymore; he hadn’t worn an earring in more than seven years.
But she’d seen it, and in seeing it, she’d glimpsed the man he used to be.
“YOU DECIDED TO HOLD A PRESS CONFERENCE WITHOUT WARNING ME?” Julia couldn’t help yelling at her sister. “Why not just tie a yellow ribbon around my throat and toss me to the wolves?”
“How was I supposed to know you’d stop by? You never came home last night, but I’m supposed to plan around your movements. Who am I? Carnac the Magnificent?”
Julia sat back in the car seat and crossed her arms. In the sudden silence, rain pattered the windshield of the police cruiser.
“Maybe the media should know you’re here. I’ll tell them how much we believe—”
“You think it would be a good thing to show my face on camera? Now? My patient—a kid, mind you—beat me up. It hardly is a ringing endorsement of my skills.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I know that,” Julia snapped. “Believe me when I tell you they won’t.”
It was the same thing she’d told herself a dozen times in the last thirty minutes. For a moment there, when she’d seen those reporters, she’d considered revealing herself as the doctor on this case. But it was too early. They no longer trusted her. She needed to do something right or they’d ruin her. Again.
She had to get the girl talking. And fast.
This was obviously going to be a big story for a few days. Headlines would be everywhere; people would be speculating about the girl’s identity. The story would probably run that she was incapable of intelligible speech because of brain damage or unwilling to talk because of fear or trauma. Nothing seized the public attention like a mystery; the press would pull at every strand. Sooner or later, Julia knew, she would be part of the story.
Ellie pulled up in front of the library. The building, an old converted taxidermy shop, sat tucked up against a stand of towering Douglas fir. Night was falling fast, so the gravel path to the door could barely be seen. “I sent everyone home for the night,” Ellie said, reaching into her breast pocket for the key. “Just like you asked. And Jules . . . I am sorry.”
“Thanks.” Julia heard the wobble in her voice. It revealed more than she would have liked. And Ellie heard it.
If things had been different between them, this was the moment when she would reach out to her sister and say I’m scared to face the media again. Instead, she cleared her throat and said, “I need somewhere private to work with the child.”
“As soon as we find a temporary foster parent, we can move her. We’re looking for—”
“I’ll do it. Call DSHS. There shouldn’t be any problem getting me approved. I’ll get the paperwork filled out tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I can’t help her an hour a week, or even an hour a day. She’ll be a full-time job for a while. Get the paperwork started from your end.”
“Okay.”
Headlights came up behind them, illuminating the cab. Moments later there was a knock at the car window that sounded like gunfire.