A Daughter's Trust

“Her name was Hannah.”

“What happened?”

“She died.” Stick to the facts, man. They’re only facts.

“I’m so sorry.” The tenderness in her voice—a woman who was a virtual stranger to him yet didn’t feel like a stranger at all—soothed the rawness chaffing a wound that would never go away. “How long ago?”

He’d started this. “Six months.”

“Oh, my God. Oh, Rick. I am so sorry.” Her eyes widened as she gave him a quick glance. And then her gaze returned to the stone. “How old was she?”

“Six. She’d be seven now.”

See, facts aren’t that hard. As long as you stick to them.

“Was she sick?” Sue turned on her bike, facing him directly. The look she gave him held a depth he couldn’t describe. She spoke without words. Which made no sense.

None of this made sense. Him with someone. Sharing Hannah.

“She was on the playground at school. A teenager high on acid lost control of his new Mustang convertible, drove through the fence and hit her.”

Yes, that was what the newspapers said. Mark had told him. The police hadn’t been as forthcoming. Rick had tried to read the clippings. Hadn’t succeeded yet.

He’d yet to make it through the boxes of cards that had come to the house. Darla had packed them up for him, left them in the spare bedroom. They were there somewhere.

“How awful. I’m…I don’t know what to say….”

Rick pedaled on.

The tragedy had nothing to do with them.

The past couldn’t be changed.

SHE STILL HAD AN HOUR before Barb’s daughter, Lisa, would be expecting her home. An hour before it was time for baths and bed for her three charges.

And she was with a man who’d disappeared into a private hell she couldn’t seem to penetrate. It was as though she’d been riding with a stranger, not the man who’d touched her so deeply in such a short space of time.

He lifted her bike into the van, and then loaded his into his SUV before turning back to her, keys in hand.

“I saw where Hannah is buried.” Sue said. “Can I see where she lived?” She was pushing. Requesting entrance into his personal space. Maybe it wasn’t wise, but it felt right.

Rick studied her, eyes narrowed, then turned away. “You want to follow me?” he asked over his shoulder as he opened the driver’s door on his Nitro.

Nodding, Sue got into the van quickly, buckling her belt and turning on the ignition at the same time. She wasn’t going to give him time to change his mind.

Looking around Rick’s living room ten minutes later, honing in particularly on all of the pictures of Hannah—of him and Hannah—Sue blinked back tears.

His daughter’s eyes were green, like her father’s. But her hair was darker than his by a couple of shades.

Sue didn’t mean to stare, but the little girl had been what child models were made of. Oozing happiness and confidence. She compelled you to look at her.

Glancing up, she saw Rick watching her. His eyes were glistening.

“I can’t imagine your loss,” she whispered.

“Neither can I. No matter how many months go by.”

He’d shown her only this room. The dark brown leather couches, coffee and end tables, home theater system. The room was nice. And there was nothing that spoke of anyone living there—no shoes left by the door, no opened mail or remote control on the table. No briefcase or keys or knickknacks. Nothing but the pictures.