Never Tell Them, N.L. Hinkens [unputdownable books txt] 📗

quick sip, the girl began talking animatedly, pointing at Henry. The woman pulled out her phone, apparently distracted.

All of a sudden, she peered pointedly around her daughter in Ray’s direction, phone still pressed to her ear. Ray smiled back at her, groaning inwardly. Now he would have to go over there and meet and greet. It would appear rude if he didn’t introduce himself when she’d looked directly at him. He waited until she’d put her phone away, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked over to the bench where she was sitting. “Our kids seem to have hit it off,” he said, slapping on a smile. ”I’m Ray Jenkins, Henry’s dad.”

“Ann Whitmore,” the woman responded. ”That’s my daughter, Ivy, playing with Henry. And this is Jack.” She adjusted the baby in her lap, her eyes shifting uneasily around. ”I haven’t seen you here before.”

“We just moved here a couple of weeks ago,” Ray said, wondering if he should mention that his wife had passed away recently. He quickly nixed the idea, anticipating the follow-up questions which would be impossible to answer. ”Henry started at Small Steps preschool.”

“I know,” Ann said abruptly. “Ivy goes there too.”

“Ah, so that explains the instant connection.” Ray shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was that was off-putting about Ann’s manner—it felt as though she’d assessed him and found him wanting as a father, almost as if she knew the guilty secret he was hiding in his backpack. He shook himself free of the paranoid thought. His head was beginning to throb again. He really should go home after this. He needed to figure out what to do. More to the point, what he’d done.

“Ivy talks about Henry all the time,” Ann went on. “He has … quite the imagination.”

Ray threw her an uncertain look, detecting a hostile undertone to the throwaway comment. “Don’t all four-year-olds?” he said, tagging on a forced laugh. ”He probably gets it from me. I’m a writer. We creatives are known for our propensity to embellish the world around us.”

Ann fidgeted on the bench as though growing increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation. Maybe it was time for her baby’s nap, and she was too polite to tell him.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Ann,” Ray said. “Henry and I should get going.”

He turned to leave when she blurted out, “Do you write fiction or non-fiction?”

“I’m a freelance journalist, so mainly articles and opinion pieces,” Ray answered, surprised at her sudden interest in reviving their flagging conversation.

Ann gave a tight smile, peering furtively around him.

He glanced over his shoulder in the direction she was looking in time to see a squad car pull into the parking lot. His heart began to beat a little faster. Nothing to be concerned about, he reassured himself. Cops regularly patrolled parks as a matter of course. It wasn’t as if they knew he had Katie Lambert’s license at his house.

He turned back to Ann. “Enjoy the rest of—”

“Wait! What, uh … what magazines are you published in?“ she stammered. “I’d like to read some of your work.”

Ray frowned. Put on the spot, he couldn’t recall the name of a single publication he’d written for. He waved a hand dismissively to cover his embarrassment, “Oh, nothing that would earn a Pulitzer.”

“Are you Ann Whitmore,” a deep voice from behind him asked.

Ray spun around to see two police officers walking toward them.

“Yes,” Ann answered, a strained expression on her face as she jiggled Jack on her lap. She gestured to Ray. “This is the man I called about.”

17

“That’s the kid over there,” Ann said, pointing to Henry who was gawping at the police officers. “He says that man’s not his father.”

Ray’s jaw dropped, shock ricocheting through him. ”What are you talking about? Of course I’m his father!”

“That’s not what he told me,” Ann retorted, staring defiantly back at him. Her faltering tone had been replaced by an air of assertiveness—emboldened, no doubt, by the presence of the police officers.

One of the officers took up a perimeter position, resting a hand casually on her gun. A male officer stepped toward Ray, his aviator shades glinting in the sun. “Do you have any ID on you, sir?”

Ray fired a wounded look at Ann before reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He could scarcely believe how duplicitous she’d been, pretending to connect over their kids’ preschool, even expressing an interest in his work—all the while waiting on law enforcement to show up and interrogate him. “I live a couple of blocks from here,” he said, handing his driver’s license to the officer. “That’s my old address. My son and I moved here a few weeks ago.”

The officer glanced at his driver’s license and then walked over and knelt next to Henry. “Hey buddy! Is this your dad?”

For a long moment, Henry stared back at the officer, his bottom lip protruding. Then, he darted over to Ray and ducked behind his legs.

Ray put an arm around him, resting his hand protectively on his shoulder. ”He lost his mother recently—my wife. And as if that wasn’t enough, I was just released from hospital yesterday. I wrecked my truck and sustained a head injury. As you can imagine, my son’s somewhat traumatized. Whatever he said, I can assure you it was only to get attention.” Ray tilted his head toward Ann, still seated on the bench. “He saw his friend’s mother interacting with her daughter and he wanted her to notice him too. He misses his mom dreadfully.”

The officer handed him back his license. ”I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I’m sure you can appreciate that we’re obligated to look into any calls about suspicious child-adult relationships. Can you verify any of what you’ve told me?”

Ray wet his lips, immediately regretting bringing up the subject of his dead wife. ”I can show you the police report of the accident. It’s at the house. My neighbor