Don't Stand So Close by Luana Lewis Page A

flipped open the shutters and looked out of the window at the four lanes of traffic outside. It was rush hour and the cars were at a standstill, bumper to bumper. She was frustrated. This had been an opportunity to demonstrate her skills and to shed some light on a case that others had found impenetrable. She would talk to Max, see if he had any ideas about how she might approach the second interview. She knew in her gut, the strength of her report would hinge on being able to engage Simpson, on gaining his trust. If he relaxed a little, got toknow her – if he understood that she was fair – perhaps she was in with a chance. She wondered if his stand-offish, guarded behaviour might be driven by an undiagnosed anxiety disorder; an irritable depression, even. Because there were moments when he seemed – decent. He had appeared so pleased to have rescued the clinic from Paul’s incense sticks.
    Stella ran through the background documents again in her mind. Some of the claims were horrifying. One image in particular kept coming back to her. His ex-wife had described how Simpson had punched her belly while she was seven months pregnant. But then again, these were allegations from an unreliable, substance-dependent witness who was fighting tooth and nail for custody of her only daughter.
    Stella had to convince Simpson that it was in his best interests to let her in. She believed him when he said he loved his daughter and wanted the best for her. But his love alone didn’t mean he was capable of providing her with a home where she was physically and emotionally safe.
    She packed the test materials away and straightened up her desk. She closed the blinds. She would write up her findings so far over the weekend, in preparation for her supervision session with Max on Monday. And she would have to think creatively about how to approach the next appointment with Lawrence Simpson.

Hilltop, 5.30 p.m.
    Stella had laid out plates, glasses and serviettes, but had decided against putting out any cutlery, just in case. Blue chose the chair at the head of the vast kitchen table and began to pick unenthusiastically at the sandwich Stella had prepared.
    Stella sat next to her. ‘How about a thank you?’ she said.
    ‘Thank you,’ Blue said, ungratefully.
    ‘You don’t seem very hungry,’ Stella said.
    ‘You can’t force me to eat.’
    ‘I’m not interested in forcing you to do anything.’
    Blue kept her eyes down as she pushed the sandwich from one side of her plate to the other. She hadn’t eaten more than a mouthful. Stella supposed the request for food had been a ploy, to ensure she was allowed to stay in the house a little longer.
    Blue yawned. ‘I’m still tired. Why did you wake me?’ She looked resentfully at her host.
    ‘It’s getting late. I need to phone someone to let them know you’re safe,’ Stella said.
    ‘I told you – there’s no one.’ Blue shifted the sandwich to the opposite side of her plate.
    ‘There must be someone,’ Stella said.
    Blue shook her head.
    ‘Well, we need to find a way to get you home.’ In truth, any hopes Stella may have had for a swift departure were fading. She was less and less optimistic that the girl would leave voluntarily.
    ‘I told you – I’m not going home.’ Blue pulled off the crusts and discarded them. ‘Have you got any Coke?’
    ‘No.’ Stella poured them each a glass of water from the jug on the table. ‘How old are you?’ she asked.
    ‘Eighteen,’ Blue said.
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Sixteen.’
    ‘It would be so much easier if you told me the truth.’
    The scene in the kitchen had begun to resemble an interrogation, but somehow Stella had ended up in the wrong place. She sat directly under a bright enamel industrial pendant lamp that hung over the long white kitchen table, casting a harsh light that hurt her eyes.
    ‘I’m not a liar,’ Blue said. She was digging her nails into her forearm and staring at the floor.
    ‘Be careful, you’ll