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  Logan didn’t even have an extra bed, let alone a big, boisterous house full of kids and a Mom and Dad. Besides, she had to work every day. Bonnie did, too, but she had Haley and Mike to take up the slack.

  It was a long shot Children’s Services would approve the arrangement, but the only one she had. She didn’t even take the time to call Bonnie first. She knew when a small child was in need, Bonnie and Mike would be on board. And she was right.

  Bonnie’s headlights swept across the front of the house. Croft’s Toyota pulled up at the same time. Several sets of footsteps crunched up the driveway, creating an asymmetrical soundscape.

  Bonnie knocked once, then entered without waiting, diaper bag slung over her shoulder. Haley was right behind her, lugging a car seat. Mrs. Croft entered last. Logan made introductions from the rocking chair, nodding for everyone to sit.

  Thirty minutes later, after a relatively short interview, during which Bonnie and Haley gave all the right answers, and Mrs. Croft observed the interaction of the child with Bonnie and her daughter, she gave her tentative approval. She seemed pleased that Bonnie, a teacher, and her husband, Mike, a fireman, had five children of their own, one of whom babysat the little girl already—Haley, the one she just met.

  Haley could continue to watch Shannon when her parents were at work, causing the least amount of disruption to her routine, which was one of the most important factors to consider in placement.

  Besides, she was low on families who would take a preschooler. With all the bad press, hardly anyone who should be, wanted to be foster parents. The ones who did were often in it only for the money, or worse.

  Mrs. Croft inwardly sighed at the difficult nature of her job.

  Later, if she could convince Bonnie and Mike to be a formal part of the program, they’d have to do all the paperwork and take the classes. She hoped they’d consider it. She’d work on that. For now, Shannon was entrusted to their care for the night.

  Mrs. Croft said she’d come by tomorrow to inspect Bonnie and Mike’s home and provide further instructions. If all went well, the temporary arrangement would be extended for another week. After that, they’d just have to wait and see how long it would take the mother to recover from her injuries.

  “What if she doesn’t make it?” Haley asked.

  Everyone else had been thinking this, but they were afraid to say it out loud.

  Mrs. Croft smiled patiently at Haley’s worried expression.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, young lady,” she said.

  22

  Logan loaded the diaper bag she brought with the clothes and kid food she grabbed for Shannon earlier that night.

  Haley took it from her and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Not much there,” Logan said, “but she’ll probably want some of her own things.”

  Kissing Shannon on her damp forehead, she handed her over to Bonnie.

  She walked them to Bonnie’s SUV.

  “Call you tomorrow,” Bonnie said, starting the engine after Haley gave her the thumbs up that Shannon was secured in her car seat.

  As soon as Haley was buckled in, she backed out of the driveway and returned Logan’s wave.

  “She’ll be fine,” Bonnie said out her window as they drove away.

  Waiting to be interviewed took another two hours at least. The responding officers collected Ben and Logan’s initial statements, then asked them to wait. Two detectives were on their way and wanted to ask their own questions.

  “Just one. Yeah,” Logan heard Bradley, the officer in charge, say into his shoulder mike, “no sign of a robbery, yet.”

  Bradley directed the younger officer to begin wrapping yellow crime scene tape around Lori’s property and everything from Logan’s studio garage and the street in front of her house, where the guy had jumped into his Jeep. There was no knowing if the man had been in her studio or not, but they asked for the keys anyway.

  Twenty minutes later, a blue van pulled up, disgorging two men, who, after pulling on plastic gloves, began to examine the taped off areas systematically, in what looked like ever-widening, concentric circles. The two men worked in grids, collecting and labeling small bits into plastic bags, placing small cones precisely here and there, then moved on to the next invisible treasure.

  Still waiting to be released from ‘house arrest’, Logan made coffee. Ben broke out the brownies. She felt guilty for being hungry but ate three before she realized it. She’d started on her second large mug of coffee—she’d never sleep tonight—when the detectives arrived at the front door. Since her knee was really starting to hurt, Ben got up to let them in. Logan wanted to bury herself in the couch cushions when she saw who it was.

  Detective Andrews.

  If she could avoid ever having to talk with him again, it would be all right with her. Last year, she’d accidentally pepper-sprayed the man full in the face while fending off a would-be kidnapper holding her and a famous local sculptor, Solange Sauvage, hostage. If operant training worked, next time Detective Andrews came upon a damsel in distress, he would think twice about rushing in to save her without checking first to see if she was armed. That would definitely put a crimp in his arresting style.

  “Ms. McKenna,” Detective Andrews said, nodding curtly.

  “Detective Andrews,” she replied, wiping the smile off her face just in time. “This is my neighbor, Ben.”

  Ben stood, offering his hand. The men shook. Detective Andrews remained standing.

  “I got here just after Shannon ran over from her house,” Ben said, nodding at the preschooler in his lap.

  “You the one called 911?”

  “Yes,” Ben said, “I had to come back for my cell phone. I left it on the counter when I went looking for Shannon’s mom. I called from here.”

  “OK. Officer Bradley will walk you back to your home, Ben. My partner, Detective Diaz, will meet you there and ask you some questions, get your statement,” he said. “We will probably need to talk with both of you down at the station again and have you sign your formal statements.”

  He looked at both of them, “The officers will be talking with your neighbors. Anyone on vacation or out of town on this street?”

  “I don’t know everyone,” Logan said, “but as far as I know, other than the house that’s for sale across the street, everyone’s home. And the house on the other side of Lori’s is a business. They’re only here during the day.”

  Andrews made some notes, then asked, “Either of you planning on going out of town?”

  “I am,” Logan said. “But not until next week. I have a work trip.”

  “You may need to reschedule,” he said, without waiting for her to object.

  Knowing she wouldn’t get any, Logan didn’t ask for clarification.

  Detective Andrews took her through the events of the day, starting from the time she and Lori went to the pet store to the time Logan heard the man running from the direction of Lori’s house. To the best of her ability, she described what she saw when he jumped in his car, screeched through a u-turn and gunned it down the street.

  “It happened so quick. TZ 2,” Logan said. That’s all I could see of the plate.”

  Once he had the timeline down to his satisfaction, Andrews moved on to a battery of more general questions. When did Lori and her daughter Shannon move in? Did she have the little girl with her when she moved in, or did she arrive later? When was the first time she spoke with her? Did she have any visitors? Where did she work? Did she ever mention any family or friends, anyone at all from before she lived in Jasper? Was there a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Did she have an accent? Anything out of the ordinary ever happen? “Other than someone almost beating her to death?” Logan asked.

  Detective Andrews kept on without skipping a beat, infuriatingly calm and steady.

  Her knee was killing her. She’d
answered all his questions several times already. By the clock on the microwave Ben had given her, it was 1:30 in the morning. Enough was enough!

  But the questions kept coming. What kind of parent was the woman? Attentive? Hovering? Neglectful? Keeping her temper, barely, Logan answered everything as completely as she could. If it would help find whoever did this to Lori, she’d keep answering questions all night.

  Finally, Detective Andrews clicked his pen shut and pocketed his note pad. Logan, her knee stiff from sitting so long, still walked him to the door. He said either he or his partner would be in touch, and if she went out of town to leave her contact information with one of them.

  Engaging the deadbolt behind him, Logan carried the coffee mugs into the kitchen, washing them out in the sink. She wondered if Ben was done being interviewed by Detective Diaz. It felt good to be doing something, even if it was only a few dishes. Cleaning was her go-to stress reliever.

  As the warm water on her hands soothed her, she thought about how little her cursory search of Lori’s house had produced. Lori, or whoever she was, had gone to an awful lot of trouble to erase any link to her past. What was she hiding from and who had found her?

  Wiping down the counter, she saw the bag of puppy supplies. What was she supposed to do with these, now? She didn’t even know when Shannon’s birthday was.

  23

  Tibetan Bells chimed Logan awake. Weekdays, she liked to be showered, dressed, fed, phone available and at her computer in her studio office by 7:30 AM. Luckily, she only had a ten-yard commute. She did a big cat stretch, yawned and wondered how things had gone with Shannon at Bonnie and Mike’s last night. She’d give her a call after breakfast.

  Intending to follow the aroma of toast and coffee wafting up the stairs, she threw off the covers and swung her legs out of bed. Halfway to standing, hot knives stabbed through her right knee, causing her to suck in a breath and flop right back down.

  Not good.

  Pulling up her cotton pajama bottoms, she inspected the damage. Her knee, swollen to the size of a basketball—well, maybe a small grapefruit—was warm to the touch and tender as hell. Tentatively, she lifted her thigh off the bed and attempted to straighten, then, bend her leg. Not much range of motion. She needed some ice. She needed her dad’s first aid recipe for every sports injury: RICE. Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation had been drummed into her as the cure for everything bigger than a hangnail since she was a fetus. Ice was downstairs. She had an ace bandage somewhere.

  Hopping to the landing, Logan lowered herself to a sitting position, then, placing her hands palms down next to her butt, lifted up with the strength of her arms and slowly descended, one stair at a time, until she reached the bottom.

  Ben was flipping fried eggs. He did it so easily with one hand and never broke a yolk. He didn’t even use a non-stick pan, but a cast-iron skillet he always brought from home. Well, he used to bring his from home. He got tired of lugging it back and forth and got her one of her own. Cruesette Cherry Red. Pretty. Not that she ever used it. Everything she tried to cook in it stuck.

  “Hey there, handsome, when you get a minute, can you get me some ice?” she smiled apologetically, feeling bad for breaking his rhythm.

  “I did a number on my knee,” she explained, “ I think there’s a bag of frozen vegetables in the freezer.”

  Slipping the eggs onto a plate, Ben came over to take a look.

  “Wow,” he said, reaching down to help her over to the couch.

  “Yep,” she said.

  Retrieving a bag of frozen peas, wrapping them in a dishtowel, Ben placed the ersatz ice pack on top of her knee.

  “I think I’ve got an ace bandage under the sink; it’d be in that white, first aid kit,” Logan said.

  “Don’t move. Hold that on. I’ll get it,” he said.

  Logan had no plans to move.

  The first aid kit yielded two ace bandages, one of which had Velcro ends, which made it much more convenient to use and re-use. She always managed to lose at least one of the metal hook/clips on the old-school kind. Unless you needed a tourniquet, the bandage was then just about useless without the metal fasteners. She tried tucking them in, but they never stayed.

  Ben took the ice pack off for a minute and expertly wrapped her in tight, but not too tight, figure eights, from upper thigh to mid-calf, then re-positioned the ice pack to cover as much knee real estate as possible. Finally, he tucked some pillows under her knee to make her more comfortable.

  “Stay put, I’ll bring breakfast,” he said. “You need to elevate that after you eat.”

  Ben returned to the kitchen, found her favorite mermaid mug and poured her coffee. Placing coffee and a plate of eggs, Canadian bacon, and toast within reach on the coffee table, he went back for his own food and joined her on the couch. She must have slept in long enough for Ben to make a trip back to his place. She knew she had none of these supplies, except the coffee, in her kitchen.

  He looked at his phone, “Do you want me to take you to urgent care?”

  “No, you’ve got work. A day of this,” she said, indicating her lolling about on the couch, “should do it.”

  “Are you sure? What if you’ve cracked it or something?”

  24

  “Tomorrow, I promise. If it’s not better. Thanks, Hon,” she said, and meant it.

  Logan treasured her independence, but one injury or illness was enough to make any woman realize that no matter how well prepared and independent we are, shit happens. We are all a split-second away from needing help. She truly was grateful for Ben in her life.

  “Anything I can get for you before I leave?” he said.

  “Yes, thanks. Can you bring me my phone and my computer? I can work mostly from here today.”

  After switching out the bag of frozen vegetables and making sure she had everything she needed within reach, including a warm-up on her coffee, Ben pulled on his work boots and told her to call him if she needed anything.

  As long as she kept her knee bent at a 45-degree angle, propped up on pillows and iced every hour for about twenty minutes, her knee didn’t really hurt that bad. But the first time she had to go to the bathroom, she discovered putting any weight on it was a very bad idea. Crawling over to the front closet, she dug around and located the hiking poles she and Ben used on some trails up at Wrightwood earlier that summer. Pulling one out, she tried various positions. It didn’t take the weight completely off that leg like a crutch could, but it worked well enough for her to get to the bathroom and kitchen as needed. Her hardwood floors may never be the same, but oh well. ...

  After making the first initial flurry of phone calls and answering essential emails, Logan dozed from boredom, read a book on her phone, and generally got absolutely no work done. The sound of Ben’s arrival that afternoon was a welcome one. It was not even three o’clock yet.

  “Taylor said he’d finish up for me,” he said as he let himself in. “Let’s go see what you did,” he said, “there’s an urgent care just off PCH and Pelican. You got your insurance card?”

  “I haven’t even showered yet!” Logan objected.

  Or brushed my teeth. Or shaved ...

  “You never stink,” Ben said, smiling, shoveling her computer and cell phone into her bag.

  Curious to know how bad it was, too, but not wanting to admit it, instead she allowed herself to be loaded into the truck and driven to the clinic.

  Two hours later, an Indian or Pakistani doctor not much older than Amy greeted her and clipped an X-ray of her knee onto the light board. No accent. Must have been raised here.

  “Right there between the femur and your tibia, see it?” he said, pointing with his pen to a faint squiggle between two long bones. “That’s your meniscus.”

  That didn’t sound good.

  “Lucky for you, it looks like you haven’t torn it. At least if you did,
it’s so small it’s not showing up,” he said, tapping his pen on the light board thoughtfully.

  Logan just wanted the bottom line.

  “Will it repair itself, or will I need surgery?”

  “No, you shouldn’t need surgery. We used to do that, but now, just do what you’ve been doing. RICE is still the best advice.”

  “In about 6-8 weeks it should heal completely,” he said.

  “But I need to be in Oregon next week,” Logan said.

  The doctor shook his head and rolled his chair back, placing his pen back in his lab coat pocket. Logan could see several small blotches of ink where other pens already leaked.

  “ ‘Sup to you,” he said. “You should be able to walk on it in about a week or so, but if you put too much pressure on it before it is completely healed, it could tear through completely, and that would require surgery... and a lot more down time for rehab.”

  “Isn’t there something I can do? Wear some kind of brace?” she asked.

  In the end, after haggling back and forth, Logan left the clinic with a pair of crutches, a prescription for pain meds the doctor insisted she take, and a referral to a medical supplies store to pick up a hinged knee brace. That and a pinch of luck ought to do it, she hoped.

  Not one to be unnecessarily brave, she filled the prescription, but hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. They’d given her Vicodin after the accident. Never having been hurt like that before, she took them as directed, one every six hours. But as soon as she could stand the pain, she flushed the remaining tablets down the toilet. Even then it was a week before she had a decent bowel movement, and another week before her sleep cycle got back to normal.

  Picking out a knee brace at the medical supply store proved to be semi-fun. The owner recommended one with flexible webbing that held it in place securely. She had a choice of hot pink, grey, blue, or basic black. Definitely hot pink. Naturally, her insurance only covered a clunky, heavy one, consisting of a soft, neoprene sleeve that gave almost no support. The only thing recommending it was the price. It was the cheapest. She happily paid the difference for the Cadillac version with the webbing. Anything to avoid surgery and more down time. It’s not like she had to save money to go dancing.