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Kit remained very still. “He was.”
“He’ll get a fancy lawyer.”
“He might. But we have good evidence and good prosecutors.” She’d learned that Joel Haley would be first chair. “I know the man who’s going to be prosecuting your mom’s boss. He’s very skilled. If anyone can get a conviction, it’ll be him.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I don’t know yet. My boss just gave me clearance to tell you. We wanted to wait until he was booked before we told you in case something fell through.”
Rita breathed hard, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “What do I say?”
“To who, honey?”
“To you.”
“You don’t have to say a thing. I just wanted you to know that sometimes the system works. And that everyone matters. Everyone deserves justice.”
“You didn’t lie,” she whispered.
“No,” Kit said softly. She wouldn’t tell her everything, especially that her mother had been pregnant with her killer’s child. At least not now. She’d ask Rita’s therapist for help on that front.
Kit was startled when Rita threw herself onto her lap, her arms twisting around Kit’s neck so tightly that it was difficult to breathe. The girl was shaking. Not crying, just shaking.
Kit carefully wrapped her arms around her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”
A wordless nod was all she got in reply, so Kit patiently waited until Rita’s body shakes became trembles and finally a great shudder. Then Rita was still.
“Nobody cared,” she whispered. “My mom was dead and no one cared.”
“I care,” Kit whispered back. “Mom and Pop care. My boss cared.”
“I miss my mom.” The words were a pitiful whimper that broke Kit’s heart again.
“I know, baby. I miss my sister, too.”
Rita’s tears started then, soaking into Kit’s neck, but Kit didn’t move. Didn’t stop hugging this thirteen-year-old girl who reminded her so much of herself. She rocked Rita gently, murmuring into her hair.
Just as Betsy and Harlan had tried to do for her when Wren died. But she’d pushed them away for more than a year, even after seeing Harlan crying in the barn. Then one day she’d crumpled under the strain, and their comfort had become a balm rather than a torture to be endured. It was shortly thereafter that she’d asked them if she was still adoptable.
She’d been Kit McKittrick ever since. So she’d pay it forward now, giving this child the comfort she hadn’t been ready to accept herself.
Rita’s sobs turned to hiccups, then little snores. Snickerdoodle carefully climbed onto the bed beside them, nuzzling into Kit’s side. Eventually Betsy came up with a tray but backed out of the room when she saw Rita curled up on Kit’s lap.
Later, Betsy mouthed.
Kit edged backward until her back was against the wall. Rita slept on, a warm presence in her arms. Normally she didn’t like to hug people for so long, but Rita was different. Rita needed her.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she’d wake the girl if she grabbed it. So she let it go for a few minutes.
Just a few minutes. Then I’ll wake her up and get us dinner.
Kit woke with a jerk, stunned to see that it was dark. She was no longer sitting against the wall, but lying down, her head on the pillow of her old bed. Someone had covered her with a blanket and taken off her boots.
Blinking hard, she fumbled for her phone.
Shit. It was eleven o’clock. Kit sat up, rubbing her eyes, irritated with herself, but Rita was sleeping in Wren’s old bed, Snickerdoodle cuddled close, so Kit kept her grumbles silent. Plus there was a note on the nightstand in Betsy’s looping handwriting.
I didn’t wake you because you needed to rest. Dinner’s in the fridge. Eat before you leave. Cupcakes for tomorrow on the table in a box. Love you. —Mom.
