The Word of a Child

Please call Detective McLean.

Mariah was not surprised to find a pink message slip in her mail cubby. Did he feel any guilt about making accusations he could never prove? Or did he believe that he held no blame for the disruption left in his wake?

She stared with burning eyes at his name, then crumpled the slip in her fist. It would be a cold day in hell before she’d ever call him.

She was glad she’d come early, so she had time to compose herself before her first class poured into her room. She paused to look at a wall mural lovingly created by one of her former students.

Her students liked her. Remembered her. Trusted her.

Tracy Mitchell had trusted her. Had come to her for help. How could she let one of her students down because her own scars weren’t fully healed?

Tracy had promise she would likely never fulfill. But it was there, and teachers were sometimes wrong about who would succeed or fail. The teenager did not deserve to be blackmailed, to have to feel that this, of all things, was her fault.

With a sigh, Mariah went to her desk and dug in her tote for her cell phone. Apparently despite the sunlight, it was really a cold day. A very, very cold day.

Somewhere.

Dear Reader,

This book continues the story begun in His Partner’s Wife about three brothers who felt compelled to become cops because of their father’s senseless murder. The Word of a Child touches on the damage done to lives by sexual abuse, but most of all it’s about trust and the suspicions that undermine love. What if you suspect your husband or parent or child of having done something terrible? Do you accuse them and find out you were wrong to trust them? We all want to believe that our family will always back us, will always assume accusations are wrong, will always believe the best until proved otherwise.

So what if you not only fear the worst about someone you love, but you never learn the truth? What does it do to that person, and to you?

These, of course, are the kinds of questions that fascinate me as a writer. I love the consequences that spread like ripples, touching so many other people. Sometimes I secretly suspect we authors are always writing about ourselves, on some level: How would I react? What would I say? Feel?

Hey, who needs psychoanalysis? Just write a few books! But you notice that I cut myself a break and always allow my characters to discover the deep, priceless love that gives our lives meaning.

My hope is that you, too, will find not just escape but occasional self-discovery in the pages of my books.

Sincerely,

Janice Kay Johnson

The Word of a Child

Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With thanks to my wonderful editors at Superromance,

Laura Shin and Paula Eykelhof, who encourage me

to write the books that matter.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PROLOGUE

MARIAH STAVIG HAD NO reason to fear the unexpected knock on the door. Her husband and daughter were safely at home; she’d hung up the telephone from speaking to her mother not five minutes before. She felt only mild surprise and curiosity about who might be stopping by at seven-thirty in the evening.

Strangers, she discovered, had come calling in the form of a very large man in a dark suit and a pleasant-faced older woman, neither of whom she knew. Which were they selling, vacuum cleaners or religion?

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Are you Mariah Stavig?”

Puzzlement replaced her initial annoyance at the intrusion. “Yes, I am.”

The man flipped open a leather case to show a police badge. “I’m Detective Connor McLean from the Port Dare PD.”

The woman displayed identification. “Gail Cooper from Child Protective Services. May we speak with you and your husband? Is he home?”

Beginning to feel wary, Mariah said, “Yes, he’s watching the Mariners.”

Neither asked about the score, even though the game was critical to the Seattle Mariners making it to the World Series and most people were at least mildly interested.

“What is it?” Mariah asked. “Is something wrong?”

“It might be best if we spoke to you and your husband together,” the woman said.

“Well, then…” Apprehension raised a lump in her throat as she backed up. “Come in.”

They followed her into the living room. Simon, a man with dark hair and the broad cheekbones of his Slavic heritage, tore his gaze from the TV and stood politely. Three-year-old Zofie, in the midst of tumbled plastic blocks and miniature people spread over the carpet, paused with a red block in one hand and stared at the visitors.

Mariah swallowed but failed to dispel the lump. “Simon, this is Detective McLean from the Port Dare police and Ms., um…”

“Cooper,” the woman said pleasantly. “Gail Cooper. I’m from Child Protective Services.”

His expression didn’t change, but Mariah felt her husband’s immediate tension. She supposed she was feeling it herself. It was so strange, having a police officer and a social worker drop by without calling, and at this time of the day.

“What do you want with us?” he asked. “Is this about someone we know?”

“In a way.” Ms. Cooper smiled at Zofie, who was alarmed enough to scramble to her feet and race to clutch her mother’s leg. “It might be best if we could talk without your daughter hearing.”

Real fear gripped Mariah now. Not questioning the suggestion, she boosted Zofie into her arms. “Honey, I need you to play in your room for a minute, while Mommy and Daddy talk to these people.” She started down the hall, as though her request was matter-of-fact, keeping her voice soft. “Okay?”

Zofie popped her thumb into her mouth and stared over Mariah’s shoulder at the strangers until her mother turned into the toddler’s bedroom.

Mariah set her on the floor beside her small table and chair. “I loved the drawing you made today. Can you draw me a new picture?”

Zofie hesitated, then sat down. Around her thumb, she mumbled, “Okay.”

“I’ll leave the door open so you can call if you need me.”

Thumb out of her mouth, the three-year-old was already reaching into her crayon box. “Okay,” she said again, obligingly. Thank heavens, she was almost always good-natured and compliant.

Simon and the two visitors stood exactly where they’d been when she’d left them, her husband stiff and still expressionless. He had turned off the baseball game.

“All right. What’s this about?” he asked, voice harsh, the moment he saw her.

Mariah gave him a reproving look. “Please. Sit down. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

The man looked at her, his light gray eyes somber. “No coffee. Thanks.”

The two sat at either end of the sofa. Mariah chose the chair facing them. Simon planted himself behind her, his hands gripping the winged back of the chair.

The police officer spoke. “A child who plays with your daughter has been sexually molested.”

Mariah pressed a hand to her mouth. “Who?” she asked faintly.

“Lily Thalberg.”

Zofie’s preschool classmate was an animated little girl with wild blond curls, bright blue eyes and enough energy and grace to make her “most likely to become a cheerleader,” as her parents joked. She and Zofie weren’t best friends, but these past few months they’d played at each other’s homes a couple of times.

“Oh, no,” Mariah breathed. “But…how? She wasn’t kidnapped, was she?”

“No, her molester was apparently an acquaintance.” Ms. Cooper looked straight at Simon. “I’m afraid she’s named you, Mr. Stavig.”

The chair jerked as Simon’s grip tightened. Mariah couldn’t breathe.

“This is insane! I hardly know who this kid is, and you’re claiming she pointed her finger at me?”

“I’m afraid she did,” the police officer said stolidly. “We’re obligated to follow—”

“You dare to come here, into my home, and accuse me on the word of a three-year-old?”

“At this point, nobody is accusing you,” the social worker soothed. “We simply need to ask you some questions, and inform you that we will be conducting an investigation.”

“An investigation!” He shoved violently at the chair, moving it several inches despite the fact his wife sat in it. Pacing, he snapped, “How can you investigate something like that? It’s ludicrous that you’re here at all. The kid can’t even talk! I can’t understand a word she says.” He stopped to glare at them with narrowed, glittering dark eyes. “Tell me—can you?”

The police officer’s jaw muscles knotted. “Yes,” he said, voice very level. “Even in a terrified whisper, ‘Zofie’s daddy,’ was clear as a bell.”

Mariah’s head swam. She felt distant, as if she looked down on a scene she didn’t fully understand and had no part in.

Lily. Pretty, comical Lily, touched…sexually? The idea defied imagination. How could anybody do something so horrific to a child so young?

And…Simon. They were saying he had done it. Mariah’s husband. The very idea was ridiculous! Mariah couldn’t believe this was happening. Had Lily ever even met Simon, except at preschool events like the Halloween party, where too many people were around for something like this to happen?

She’d missed a couple of exchanges.

Simon was shouting, “Maybe you should be looking at her daddy. Did you ever think of that?”

Mariah stared at him in shock. He and Tom Thalberg had talked about the Mariners in front of the house just recently. Tom was a nice man.

Seemed to be a nice man. These people wouldn’t be here if Lily hadn’t been molested. Somebody had done this unspeakable thing.

She heard her own voice. “Was she raped?”

The police officer’s cold stare for her husband turned to something gentler when he looked at her. She read sympathy in his eyes. For her, which scared her even more.

“No. We can be grateful, because she would have been injured badly if an adult male had actually penetrated her vaginally. From the standpoint of the investigation, however, the ability to gather DNA would have been helpful.”

“Oh.” Penetration… No. She would not imagine Zofie, instead. No. “Then…then what?” she asked, just audibly.

He told her about oral sex and objects pushed into Lily, things Mariah wished she’d never heard. She glanced at Simon, expecting him to look as shocked, but all he did was stand across the living room from the tableau the rest of them made, his nostrils flared, fury written across his face.

“My husband would never do anything like that,” Mariah said stoutly. “We have a daughter. You saw her. Zofie is fine. Surely a man who would molest another child would do the same thing to his own daughter.”

“Yes.” Detective McLean’s voice was very soft, the gaze he kept on her husband very hard. “Unfortunately that’s usually true.”

They started talking about how she needed to take Zofie to the hospital to be checked, and that for her safety, Simon should move out of the house and not be alone with her while the investigation proceeded.

Simon exploded. “You want to take my wife and home and child from me? You have no evidence and no right!”

The police officer rose to his feet, his bulk suddenly menacing. “We have the word of the victim.”

“Get out of my house now!”

“Daddy?” In her bright red overalls, her dark hair ponytailed, her small face pinched, Zofie stood in the hall. “Mommy? Why is Daddy yelling?”

Simon’s head swung as if he were an angry bull. “Go back to your room! Now!”

Her breath hitched and tears filled her eyes. With a muffled sob, she ran.

Mariah sat rooted, unable to go after her.

Taking advantage of the interruption, Ms. Cooper said, “Mr. Stavig, if you’d just answer some questions…”

“I will answer no questions! Get out.”

“Mr. Stavig, you might be able to clear this up in half an hour if you would cooperate,” the social worker tried again.

“Simon,” Mariah whispered. “Please.”

He didn’t even glance at her. “I’ve never been alone with this girl, I hardly know who she is. Look elsewhere for your monster.”

“Monsters,” Detective McLean said, “can take many forms, Mr. Stavig. Even that of a man like you.”

Face contorted with anger and, Mariah thought, an effort to hide fear or even tears, Simon stalked to within a few inches of the police officer. “Out,” he snarled.

The detective inclined his head. “Certainly. But we will be back, and you will answer questions.” Those light, compelling eyes turned to Mariah. “Mrs. Stavig, please try to persuade your husband to help us instead of hindering. And consider taking your daughter and staying elsewhere if you can’t persuade him to leave the house for the new few weeks.”

They walked out. Neither Mariah nor Simon followed. She sat frozen, stunned, reluctant to look at her husband. She heard him breathing as hard as if he’d been running, or fighting.

The front door closed quietly. From down the hall came the sound of quiet sobs.

Mariah waited for Simon to say, How can they think I would do such a thing? Or, Help me remember. I’ve never even been alone with this girl, have I? She waited for him, to come to her, perhaps kneel in front of her and take her hands and beg her to believe him incapable of being the monster Detective Connor McLean had named him.

Instead he turned that furious face on her and said, “You will take Zofie out of preschool so that no one else can accuse us.” And then he picked up the remote control and turned on the television, as if nothing had happened.

Stiff and tired and feeling terribly afraid, Mariah stood and went down the hall to her daughter’s room.

“Martinez is rounding third,” the commentator crowed.

She wasn’t sure Simon had even noticed she’d left the room.

If he had asked her, Help me remember, she would have had to say, Last Saturday, my students did a Sunday matinee of The Diary of Anne Frank. You agreed to watch both Zofie and her friend Lily Thalberg. I know nothing happened, but you were alone with the girls.

But he had not asked that or anything else. He had not been grieving for Lily, nor bewildered at such a terrible accusation. He had been in a rage that anyone would believe the word of a three-year-old child.

A child the age of his own Zofie, who was just as pretty as Lily Thalberg.

CHAPTER ONE

“MS. STAVIG? CAN I TALK to you?”

Mariah looked up with a smile. “Tracy! Of course you may. Come on in.”

A seventh-and eighth-grade literature and drama teacher, she kept her classroom door open during her planning period specifically so that students would feel free to drop by. Most often it was the theater enthusiasts who hung around her classroom during breaks, but she wanted to be available to kids like Tracy Mitchell who were falling behind with their assignments, too.

Mariah had been grading papers in which her eighth-grade advanced lit students were supposed to be analyzing To Kill A Mockingbird. Josh Renfield’s opening sentence was a tangle with no subject. He liked big words and multiple clauses, but basic grammatical structure apparently eluded him. Mariah laid down her red pencil with relief.

“Are you here to talk about your missing assignments?” she asked.

“No. Um…” Tracy fidgeted in front of the desk. “Can I tell you something? I mean, something…well, that I’m not supposed to?”

“Not supposed to?” Was Tracy mature enough to realize that a friend was in over her head with drugs or boys, that some secrets weren’t meant to be kept?

“Mature” was not the word that leaped to mind with Tracy Mitchell, who tended to spend classes passing notes and giggling.

“Yeah.” Her blond hair swung down, a curtain hiding her face. She spoke so softly, Mariah had to strain to hear. “This guy made me do things. He said no one would believe me if I was stupid enough to talk. I’ve been…I’ve been really scared.”

“Scared,” Mariah echoed, a chill hand closing on her heart. “Somebody threatened you?”

“I didn’t think anybody would believe me.” The girl looked up, her blue eyes full of hope. “But Lacy Carlson says you will. That you listen to kids.”

No. Please not me, Mariah begged silently. Choose someone else to tell.

Even as she had the pitiful thoughts, Mariah knew she was being selfish. Tracy had come to her because she had developed a reputation among students as trustworthy. She should be glad that the teenager felt she could safely tell her story. She should even be flattered that the girl had chosen her. It meant she had done something right as a teacher.

But, oh, she didn’t want to hear it. Not if the hearing meant she had to report the story to authorities and loose them on some man and his family.

Showing none of her inner turmoil on her face, she rose to her feet and closed the door to the hall. Coming back to the girl, Mariah placed a gentle hand on her arm.

“Why don’t we sit down.” She pulled a student desk to face the one Tracy chose. “Okay. Whoever ‘he’ is, it sounds like he doesn’t want you to think anybody will believe you. Which doesn’t mean they won’t.”

Tracy thought about that. “Maybe. Except—” she blushed “—I’m not a very good student. And I dress kind of…”

Like a slut, Mariah filled in. Aloud she said, “Provocatively?”

Tracy knew that word. She nodded.

“It’s against the law for a man to rape a prostitute, you know.”

“You mean, a whore?”

“That’s right. In other words, your clothing or even, in the case of a prostitute, your profession do not constitute an invitation. No one can touch you without your permission.” She paused a beat. “Is that what happened?”

Tracy’s blue eyes filled with tears. After a moment, she gave a jerky nod.

“Will you tell me about it?” Mariah asked gently.

“The first time, he, um, just touched me.”

“Where?” She kept her voice patient.

“My…well, my breasts. And, um, he kissed me.”

“Did you mind? Or did you like it?”

“I guess I kind of… I mean, he’s older and everything,” the thirteen-year-old mumbled to the desk.

“You were flattered.”

Tracy squirmed. “Kind of.”

“Okay. Any of us might be.”

“Only then, um, the next time he unzipped his pants and he made me touch his…you know.” She was crying in earnest now, and her nose began to run.

Mariah stood long enough to grab a box of tissues and hand her several.

Tracy blew her nose.

“He made you fondle him.”

“And…and put my mouth on him. He tasted…it was really gross. Especially when he…”

Mariah hid her shudder.

“Did anything more happen?” she asked quietly.

“Last time he…” She stole a look up. “He made me have sex. It hurt so bad! And I’m afraid I’ll be pregnant!” With her face puffy and wet, she looked like a frightened eight-year-old, not the teen she was.

Mariah took her hands and squeezed them. “How long ago did you have sex?”

Tracy snuffled. “It was…it was the day before yesterday.”

“There are morning-after drugs to keep you from being pregnant. That’s the first thing we’ll have to see to.”

Her voice lightened. “You mean, I don’t have to be pregnant?”

“No, you don’t have to be pregnant.” Mariah hesitated. “Tracy, is this man related to you?”

Her head ducked immediately, but she shook it no.

Actually, to the best of Mariah’s knowledge, Tracy’s biological father wasn’t in the picture. On the two occasions when Mariah had called the mother in for a conference, she had left a different unsavory-looking boyfriend lurking in the hall. Mariah wasn’t as surprised as she wished she could be that one of them, or another just like them, had molested the pretty young girl who dressed in tiny miniskirts and baby Ts that showed rapidly ripening breasts to superb advantage.

“Will you tell me who he is?”

“Will he have to know?” she whispered.

“If he’s an adult, he should be punished. In the eyes of the law, you’re a child. He cannot force you, or even persuade you, to have sexual relations. You did say he’s older?”

Fresh tears flowed. “He’s a teacher.”

Mariah’s heart sank even as her mouth made an O of surprise. Not one of the boyfriends.

A teacher. This was going to be ugly, and she wanted no part in it. Teachers were so vulnerable to these accusations. Look at her now: alone in the room with Tracy, the door closed. A student could say anything happened, and how would it be disproved?

“Oh dear,” she said weakly.

“He…he told me he’d give me a good grade if I…you know. And if I didn’t, he’d flunk me.”

“I wish you’d reported him then and asked to be transferred from the class.” She immediately regretted saying even that; she didn’t want poor Tracy to feel as if what happened—assuming it had happened—was her fault in any way.

Tracy’s head went down again. In a choked mumble, she said, “I thought it was kind of cool that he liked me. Even though he’s old.”

Mariah squeezed her hands again. “Who is it, Tracy?”

The seventh-grader murmured something.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t hear you.”

“Mr. Tanner.”

Mariah couldn’t suppress an, “Oh, no.”

Tracy’s chin shot up. “Do you think I’m lying?”

“Did I say that?”

She yanked her hands away. “You sound like it!”

“No. I’m only…sorry. I thought he was a well-liked teacher.”

“You mean, well-liked by you,” the girl said spitefully.

“Tracy, I know him only as a colleague. We aren’t personal friends. I’m on your side. I won’t abuse your trust, I promise.”

The flash of fear and anger faded. “Oh.”

“Can you repeat your story for Mrs. Patterson?”

“The principal?” she said in dismay.

“She’ll have to hear it, you know. And then I’m afraid you’ll have to tell the police or a social worker. You may even have to testify in court.”

“In court?” Tracy shrank back. “They can’t just fire him?”

“It’s not that simple. How can he be fired on the basis of one student saying he did something? He’ll likely be suspended while an investigation goes on, but unless he admits to having relations with you, he may have to be convicted of a crime before he can be fired.”

The teenager looked genuinely frightened now. “But…what if I won’t talk in court?”

Mariah hated having to tell the poor girl what she’d set in motion by choosing to come to a teacher.

“Now that you’ve told me,” she said sympathetically, “I have to report your story. That’s the law for teachers. It would certainly be hard to convict Mr. Tanner if you won’t testify. That would leave him free to molest other girls. Do you want that?” She gave Tracy a moment to reflect, then levered herself out of the student desk. “I’m going to call Mrs. Patterson to come here right now. Please stay and tell her, just like you did me. The worst is over, Tracy. It’ll be easier this time, I promise.”

Tracy sat hunched and small while they waited. Feeling out of her depth, Mariah talked gently about boys and how nice kisses were when both parties wanted them and how inexcusable it was for an adult to compel a child to have intercourse.

Noreen Patterson was a plump woman of perhaps forty filled with good cheer that didn’t disguise her willingness to command.