Innocent Hostage by Vonnie Hughes

When he was fourteen his father had spent hours inculcating the old ‘peace not war’ mantra into his son. So much so that Breck was unable to defend himself until he became a cop. He often wondered what his father would have done if someone had attacked his mother. Probably stand there and lecture the assailant till the guy was so bored he’d run away. Breck also believed in peace not war, but he’d seen the other side of the coin too often to know it didn’t always work.
Unit Four took it upon themselves to give the fourteen-year old some advice. He was too frightened to do more than bluster when Abe, Breck and Turkey had quietly come up behind him and relieved him of his weapon. By that stage he knew he’d bitten off more than he could chew and had been almost pleased to see them. As Abe said, “Not all the boy’s fault. His father has had a gun license for years. He should have spent some time telling the kid the gun license was a privilege, not a right.”
Jace reported to Breck that evening while Breck packed a sleepy Kit into the back seat of the SUV. “Ms. Rowland gave me a superior look that said, ‘The parenting didn’t last long, did it?’ So, I got stuck into her. I said you were carrying a heavy load, and doing it well. I told her not to judge people she knew nothing about.”
Breck cringed. He hadn’t told Jace about Ingrid’s helpfulness on the day Moffat had questioned him, and he wasn’t sure Jace was in the mood to listen anyway. He smiled and thanked her. What else could he do?
But his heart was heavy when he delivered Kit to preschool the following day. If Ingrid told him to take Kit elsewhere, he didn’t know what he’d do. Kit loved Ms. Rowland. It was “Ms. Rowland says” and “Ms. Rowland likes us to…” until Breck was absurdly jealous of her influence over his son. Anyway, he liked Ingrid. She was a rare woman who’d come to his aid even though she didn’t like him and thought he was a hopeless father. And she was a heck of a good teacher. She was nothing at all like his parents. Somehow he knew that if her kid couldn’t read until he was eight years old, she’d just encourage him and cuddle him and pretend she didn’t care. And once or twice Breck had been late collecting Kit at the end of the day and she’d never said a word.
He approached the gate of the preschool warily.
But Ingrid Rowland came out to greet them, taking Kit by the hand and smiling nervously at Breck. She licked her lips, and then jumped straight to the heart of the matter. “Mr. Marchant, please—”
“Breck,” he said.
“Breck,” she said, the same way she’d said it on the day of Kit’s escape from Marty.
Breck’s toes curled and he damned near forgot to breathe. He found himself grinning like a loon. You don’t spend enough time around women, Marchant, if this up-tight little munchkin can tie you up in knots. Concentrate.
Meanwhile, Ingrid was warbling on. “Please apologize to Mrs. Carter for me. She caught me at a bad moment yesterday.”
She peered at him from under her lashes. Was she checking to see if he was suitably mollified?
“My stepfather was here looking over his investment.” Her dry tone reminded Breck of autumn leaves crushed underfoot. “He is insisting I raise my fees. We were in the middle of a battle royal when Mrs. Carter arrived to collect Kit. It wasn’t because she was late or because you didn’t come or anything like that.” She smiled down at Kit. “Say goodbye to Daddy and put all your gear away now, Kit,” and off skipped Kit, happy as a cricket with his new Spiderman backpack.
Ingrid Rowland turned back to Breck. “He’s a new person,” she said. “Living with you has worked wonders.”
“D’you think so?” Was she buttering him up? He’d thought recently that Kit seemed more settled and less inclined to be watchful. But he didn’t know enough about the parenting thing to be sure.
Ingrid nodded, strands of hair escaping the business-like scarf