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“Yeah,” I said slowly, wincing because I wasn’t all that sure I should tell him this part, even as I admitted, “It was her boyfriend.”
“Topher?” he said, his shock evident. “Are you sure?”
“That is the one thing I’m absolutely certain about. He caused this.”
“Son of a—But—” I could actually hear his surprise and confusion morph into rage. “Oh, hell no. That motherfucker called here, looking for her, acting worried and concerned and scaring the shit out of us, and he’s the one who did this? What the fuck did he do to her?”
“I don’t know.” Shaking my head, I glanced toward the girl on my couch. Her closed eyelids looked dark and bruised from the amount of crying she’d done in my arms. “But she’s not in a good place.”
“Okay, okay,” the other man rasped, his voice breaking. “Shit.” He sniffed out a sob and then added, “Here. Talk to my wife. I don’t think I can… Fuck. Not my little girl.”
A moment letter, a lisping feminine voice said, “Hello?”
“Ma’am,” I said softly, starting to feel like an asshole for causing Haven’s dad to cry.
“This is Haven’s mother,” the woman told me, pausing every few seconds to catch a breath as if she had trouble breathing too. “My name is Sarah. How…how is she?”
“She’s sleeping on my couch right now. Before that, her eyes were open and she would blink, but she was pretty much checked out from reality.”
“Does she look as if…if he struck her or hurt her in any way? Does she need a hospital?”
“No,” I said, wincing even as I said it because I wasn’t all that certain what she needed. “I mean, I don’t think she needs to go to the hospital. Earlier, when she was still talking, she said he hadn’t physically hurt her. I think all this is ju
st emotional trauma.”
“Okay, then. At least we know what we’re dealing with. Brandt—my husband—says you won’t tell us where she is until we convince you we’re good parents.”
“I’m sorry,” I started, wincing. “I’m sure you are. I just want to be—”
“No, it’s fine. Your caution actually relieves my mind. She’ll be in good hands until we can get to her. Right?”
“Of course.” I bobbed my head emphatically.
She paused a moment before asking, “What do you need to know to be convinced we’ll take care of her?”
“Uh…” Shit, I had no idea what to ask. “I don’t know,” I confessed lamely.
I was going to ask them to name Haven’s favorite color or her first pet—shit like that—but there would be no way for me to know if whatever answer they gave was correct. And besides, would knowing any of that honestly prove they were good parents or that Haven would want them here? I wasn’t sure.
When I stalled too long, Mrs. Gamble patiently asked, “What’s your name?”
“Wick,” I answered automatically.
“Wick Webster, the safety?” She sounded surprised.
I pulled back, a little surprised myself. “Uh, yeah. I play safety in football.” How had she known that?
“You’re on the team with Topher,” she went on. “Brandt watches your games.”
Okay, that made sense. Then I cringed, realizing I’d just linked myself to the guy who had hurt her daughter. Lovely. Now they were never going to trust that I was taking care of her.
“Brandt mentioned your name to Topher once, about how good of a season you were having this year.”
“Oh,” I said, my voice growing smaller. Because, oh shit. “I bet that went over well.”
My sarcasm made Haven’s mom chuckle. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Topher had a lot to say about you.”
Double shit. They were probably freaking the fuck out, thinking I was the devil incarnate, all because of Topher fucking Nicholl. There was no way he’d ever said anything good about me.
