A Cry In The Dark. Jenna Mills

      Her words shouldn’t have stung. She was right, after all. There were those at the Bureau who swore playing chicken with an oncoming freight train was smarter than putting your faith and your future—your son’s life—in Liam Brooks’s scarred hands.

      He looked at her standing there, sleek and drenched and vulnerable in ways he knew she hated, and once again shoved his hands in his pockets. It was harder this time, because the thick denim was drenched and sticking to his body. Not because the urge was stronger. It was only human compassion, he assured himself, even if he hadn’t felt any in years. Hadn’t felt a woman, either. Hadn’t touched, hadn’t tasted.

      Hadn’t wanted.

      Until tonight.

      “Yes, you do,” he said, and the words scraped on the way out. “You do.” He stepped toward her, again lifted a hand to her face. “You need me in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.” And he needed her even more. “That’s why I can’t leave you alone.”

      Stopping the rain falling from the darkened sky or the wind lashing waves against the shore would have been easier.

      Then, because he wanted to step closer, because he knew he’d pushed hard enough for one night, he turned and walked away.

      He didn’t belong here.

      That was her first thought. It was too dark, too quiet and spooky. Too far from home.

      He was awfully brave. That was her second thought. The little boy with the sandy hair and skinned knees lay curled on a narrow white bed, staring into the darkness. He wasn’t crying, like she wanted to, wasn’t calling for his mommy, like she tried to do but couldn’t.

      The small room was cold, not like the winter in Boston when big fat fluffy snowflakes fell for hours and hours and she wanted to go play but Daddy wanted her to stay inside by the warmth of the fireplace, but like the dark corner of the basement. And it was so still and quiet. Too quiet.

      “Who are you?” she wanted to ask, but her voice didn’t work here.

      The boy looked up anyway, looked directly at her, startled her with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

      “I’m Alex.”

      His name echoed through the quiet, strangely smelling room, even though she never saw his mouth move. “Are—are you okay?”

      He didn’t look hurt, just scared.

      She didn’t really expect him to answer, because her voice still wasn’t working. But his little mouth puckered, and he nodded. “I wanna go home.”

      So did she. She wanted to be back in her safe little pink and white room, in her cozy house with her mommy and daddy just a few doors down the hall. She wanted to open her eyes and see her favorite pink teddy bear, to hug it close to her body, to breathe deeply and smell the soft scent of powder and lotion, not this nasty smell that reminded her of mud puddles several days after it rained. She couldn’t remember the word her mommy used to describe that icky smell, but she knew it was a bad word.

      Just like this was a bad place.

      “What are you doing here?” the little boy asked. “How did you get here?”

      She looked around, started to shiver. She didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know how she’d gotten there. It had all happened so fast. The last thing she remembered was crawling into her bed, her daddy reading a story, saying their prayers together, then him kissing her on the cheek and turning off the pink poodle lamp Santa had brought her for Christmas.

      Swallowing a sob, trying to match his bravery, she studied him more closely. She couldn’t understand why she felt as if she already knew him.

      He chewed his lips, glancing across the small room to where light leaked in from under the door. “We gotta get out of here.”

      She knew that. She may have been only two, but she knew she had to help the little boy get out of there. He was scared, and he was in trouble, and even though she was scared, too, and just a girl, she was the only one who could help him.

      But she didn’t know how.

      The only thing she knew how to do was draw. Her mommy said she was the best. Her daddy called her a prodigy, whatever that was.

      “I’ll try,” she promised bravely, then spotted the table and the crayons scattered on top. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to walk across the room, but knew she had to. Biting her lip, she forced her legs to carry her, even though they felt all heavy. It didn’t matter how hard it was. It didn’t matter how scared she was.

      All that mattered was the little boy named Alex and finding some way to get him back to his mommy and daddy.

      So she could go back to her mommy and daddy. And her pink teddy bear.

      “What are you doing?” Alex asked, peering queerly at her.

      She wasn’t sure, just knew she had to draw. “Just wait,” she said, picking up a crayon and pushing it against a blank sheet of paper. “Maybe this will help.”