Her Detective's Secret Intent

Either way, she knew that Tad wasn’t going to tell her son about Danny’s abuse. She hadn’t run three thousand miles, given up everything she’d had, everything she’d known, to have her young son exposed to domestic violence. In time, when he was older and his psyche had been formed with loving family values...then she’d tell him.

Ethan didn’t lighten up. On the contrary, he was pretty much a brat. A child Miranda didn’t recognize as he insinuated himself between Tad and her, interrupting any time the two of them started a conversation, and refusing to answer Tad when he spoke to him directly.

Tad had been in their home less than ten minutes, and the evening was a disaster.

“Maybe I should go,” he said to her, standing up from the couch several yards behind where Ethan sat on the floor. Setting the glass of red wine she’d brought him on the table, Tad pulled out his keys.

“I don’t think a six-year-old has the right to determine our evening,” Miranda said, surprising herself with the firmness of her tone. She didn’t get demanding with her son, ever. He was a good kid. Rarely needed discipline, just guidance.

And she was not going to be like her father. Her son would never have reason to fear her. She’d promised herself, and him, too, when he’d been a baby on the run with her.

She stood, hands on her hips. “Ethan, turn around please.”

At first, the boy didn’t move, then, very slowly, he turned, looking up at her through his Clark Kent glasses. Her heart melted, as it always did, when he showed her the emotions he wasn’t old enough to hide.

“Do you really want Tad to leave?” she asked him, praying he’d be honest with her. And with himself.

“I dunno.”

“That’s not good enough, Ethan. We have a guest in our home and you’re being rude.”

Not that she could totally fault him on his manners. If she’d ever had visitors, he might have been better equipped to be a proper host.

“I’m sorry.” He sounded more petulant than contrite.

“The other day you asked me to come over,” Tad said, dropping down to sit on the floor beside him.

The boy, his game controller in hand, stared at the television.

“You worried I’m going to win our next battle?” he asked, glancing at the screen.

Ethan shrugged.

While she didn’t love video games, Miranda played them with her son. He’d never been a sore loser. Nervous, but also kind of fascinated, she got her glass of wine, had a seat on the couch and sipped.

“So...let me play, too,” Tad suggested, picking up the unused game controller. He couldn’t do much unless Ethan changed to a two-player version. She waited.

And let out a long breath when her son did just that.

Fifteen minutes into a silent but competitive game, she slipped out to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dinner, telling herself not to make too much of Tad’s advent into their lives.

Warning herself.

He was only with them for a short time. She could enjoy herself, needed to enjoy herself for her own and Ethan’s health. Needed to introduce him to others.

And would continue to do so after Tad was gone.

He was just the first step on this next stage of her survivor journey. She’d start to open her home, their lives, more. Thanks to Tad.

The feelings he’d raised in her, maybe simply because she was ready and he was there, had forced her to confront her fear of inviting others in.

Ethan had forced it a bit, too, latching onto Tad as immediately as he had. Hearing their voices from the other room, she left the dressed salad in the glass bowl on the counter and went in to tell them dinner was ready.

“Why’s it rude for me to ignore you when you ignored me?” she heard.

Oh, Lordy. Her so

n was not giving up. She wondered which one had broken the silence between them, and suspected it had been Ethan. Tad, with his honed self-control or discipline or whatever it was, probably could have waited it out for days.