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John peered through the tilted mini-blinds into the lieutenant’s office. He studied the woman inside who sat on a couch, sandwiched between two kids.
A mental checklist ticked off in John’s mind. She was small, maybe a hundred twenty-five pounds. Her arms and legs were scratched and bruised. If he had to guess, he’d say she was about five-six. A few light brown strands had pulled free from her pony tail and framed her tan face. The way she held her head, watching her children sleep, he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes.
Suddenly the little girl woke and scrambled into her mother’s lap.
Mesmerized, John watched the woman Zohara identified as Stephanie Boyd cradle her daughter, smoothing her hair and whispering into her ear—just like Julie had done with Katie.
Fury as familiar as the air he breathed flickered fresh in John and he fingered the rubber band he’d worn on his little finger for the past two years.
He punched the anger away.
He couldn’t deal with his demons now.
“They watched their father murdered,” Zohara said, pulling John back to the conversation.
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