looked away at the poster on the wall instead. The poster was of a man on a gray horse jumping a fence. It was bright and colorful. Josh thought he might like to ride a horse like that someday. He closed his eyes and pretended to dream he was riding the gray horse on the moon.
Dr. Robert Ulrich bit back a sigh, flicked a glance at Mitch, then turned to Hannah. "I can't find any signs that he's been sexually abused."
Hannah stood beside the examination table where Josh sat wearing a thin blue-print cotton gown. He looked so small, so defenseless. The harsh fluorescent lighting gave his skin a ghostly pallor. She kept one hand on his arm to reassure him—and herself. A doctor herself, she knew better than to interfere with the proceedings, but she couldn't bring herself to sit in the chair three feet away. She hadn't broken contact with him since she had opened the front door of the house and found him standing on the step two hours ago.
She had been trying to sleep—something she didn't do very well anymore. The bed seemed too big, the house too quiet, too empty. She had told Paul to leave Saturday night, but he had been lost to her long before that. The happy partnership they had once shared seemed a distant memory. Lately all they had between them was tension and bitterness. The man she had married ten years ago had been sweet and gentle, full of hope and enthusiasm. The man she had faced two nights ago was angry and petty and jealous, discontented and emotionally abusive. She didn't know him anymore. She didn't want to.
And so she had lain alone in their big bed, staring up at the skyligh and the black swatch of January night, wondering what she would do. How would she cope, who would she be. That was a big question: who would she be? She certainly wasn't the same woman she had been two weeks before. She felt like a stranger to herself. The only thing clear was that she would cope, somehow. She had to for herself and for Lily . . . and for Josh, for the day he came home.
Then there he was, standing on the front step.
Afraid the spell might break, she hadn't let go of him since that moment. Her fingers stroked the soft skin of her son's forearm, assuring her he was real and alive.
"Hannah? Are you listening to me?"
She blinked and focused on Bob Ulrich's square face. He was closer to fifty than forty. He had been a friend to her from the day she had come to interview for a staff position at Deer Lake Community Hospital. He had been influential in the board's recent decision to name her head of the ER. He had delivered Lily and removed Josh's tonsils. He had come to the hospital tonight at her request to examine Josh. He looked at her now with concern.
"Yes," Hannah said. "I'm sorry, Bob."
"Do you want to sit? You look a little woozy."
"No."
Mitch contradicted her without saying a word, sliding a stool up behind her and pressing her onto it with a hand on her shoulder. Her blue eyes were glassy, her hair a mass of golden waves hastily tied back. The past weeks had taken a toll on her physically. Naturally slender, she now looked thin to the point of anorexic. She had stood beside the table for the entire exam, holding Josh's hand, staring at his face, leaning over to kiss his forehead. She didn't seem to be aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Mitch pulled a clean handkerchief out of his hip pocket, pressed it into her free hand, and wondered where the hell Paul was.
He should have been here for this, for Josh, for Hannah. Hannah had tried to call him at his office, which was where he had been spending his nights, and had got his machine. Mitch had sent a squad car to the office complex. Nearly two hours later there was still no sign of Paul. And God knew, tomorrow, when Paul would be the center of attention for the press, he would blame the police department for not rushing him to his son's side.
Josh had been absolutely silent throughout the
Dr. Robert Ulrich bit back a sigh, flicked a glance at Mitch, then turned to Hannah. "I can't find any signs that he's been sexually abused."
Hannah stood beside the examination table where Josh sat wearing a thin blue-print cotton gown. He looked so small, so defenseless. The harsh fluorescent lighting gave his skin a ghostly pallor. She kept one hand on his arm to reassure him—and herself. A doctor herself, she knew better than to interfere with the proceedings, but she couldn't bring herself to sit in the chair three feet away. She hadn't broken contact with him since she had opened the front door of the house and found him standing on the step two hours ago.
She had been trying to sleep—something she didn't do very well anymore. The bed seemed too big, the house too quiet, too empty. She had told Paul to leave Saturday night, but he had been lost to her long before that. The happy partnership they had once shared seemed a distant memory. Lately all they had between them was tension and bitterness. The man she had married ten years ago had been sweet and gentle, full of hope and enthusiasm. The man she had faced two nights ago was angry and petty and jealous, discontented and emotionally abusive. She didn't know him anymore. She didn't want to.
And so she had lain alone in their big bed, staring up at the skyligh and the black swatch of January night, wondering what she would do. How would she cope, who would she be. That was a big question: who would she be? She certainly wasn't the same woman she had been two weeks before. She felt like a stranger to herself. The only thing clear was that she would cope, somehow. She had to for herself and for Lily . . . and for Josh, for the day he came home.
Then there he was, standing on the front step.
Afraid the spell might break, she hadn't let go of him since that moment. Her fingers stroked the soft skin of her son's forearm, assuring her he was real and alive.
"Hannah? Are you listening to me?"
She blinked and focused on Bob Ulrich's square face. He was closer to fifty than forty. He had been a friend to her from the day she had come to interview for a staff position at Deer Lake Community Hospital. He had been influential in the board's recent decision to name her head of the ER. He had delivered Lily and removed Josh's tonsils. He had come to the hospital tonight at her request to examine Josh. He looked at her now with concern.
"Yes," Hannah said. "I'm sorry, Bob."
"Do you want to sit? You look a little woozy."
"No."
Mitch contradicted her without saying a word, sliding a stool up behind her and pressing her onto it with a hand on her shoulder. Her blue eyes were glassy, her hair a mass of golden waves hastily tied back. The past weeks had taken a toll on her physically. Naturally slender, she now looked thin to the point of anorexic. She had stood beside the table for the entire exam, holding Josh's hand, staring at his face, leaning over to kiss his forehead. She didn't seem to be aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Mitch pulled a clean handkerchief out of his hip pocket, pressed it into her free hand, and wondered where the hell Paul was.
He should have been here for this, for Josh, for Hannah. Hannah had tried to call him at his office, which was where he had been spending his nights, and had got his machine. Mitch had sent a squad car to the office complex. Nearly two hours later there was still no sign of Paul. And God knew, tomorrow, when Paul would be the center of attention for the press, he would blame the police department for not rushing him to his son's side.
Josh had been absolutely silent throughout the
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