Courtney went silent again and shook her head.
Susan knew what Sam was getting at. In an attempt to help, she said, “You must have had quite some Easter to get a bunny like this. Did your grandma make dinner?”
“Mommy did,” the little girl told her.
“Were your grandma and grandpa there?”
Courtney nodded.
“Who else was there?”
“Just my daddy.”
“Any aunts and uncles?”
Courtney shook her head, then said in that small, high voice, “I don’t have any of those. Betsy Winters says I can have some of hers. She hates them.”
Sam remembered all the times he’d tried to send things to his niece, and he felt a sudden urge to take the child in his arms. But she’d made it clear that he frightened her, so, instead, he said, “You have an uncle now, Courtney. I’ll take good care of you.”
“I want my mommy.”
“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”
“I want my mommy.”
“How about a Kit Kat? I’ll bet we could find one somewhere in a machine.”
“I don’t wantyourKit Kat,” she said. Her chin was beginning to tremble. “I want my mommy’s.”
Susan’s heart was breaking, not only for the child but for Sam. He was doing his best to put the little girl at ease, but he hadn’t had much practice with children. And even if he’d been an expert, he wasn’t at his best. The family he hadn’t seen for fifteen years, but had held in his heart far longer than that, had suddenly been tom from him. He was in mild shock.
Susan shot a beseechful glance at the policewoman, thinking that maybe she’d know something brilliant to say. But the woman was younger than Susan, wore no wedding band, and had “I’m only the courier” stamped on her face. Even as Susan looked at her, she glanced at her watch.
Courtney continued to stare at Sam. “Is he a boy or a girl?” she asked no one in particular.
Grateful for the diversion, Susan answered. “Sam? He’s a boy.”
“But he’s got long hair. Only girls have long hair.”
“Boys do sometimes. Sam’s is only long in back. I kinda like it.”
“I don’t. I don’t like him. I don’t want him for my uncle.”
The policewoman did speak then, showing more insight than Susan would have credited her with moments before. “I think you’re being used as a scapegoat, Mr. Craig.”
Sam could understand that. It didn’t make things any easier for him, though. Nor did thinking how much better things would have been if the child had known him. That was water over the dam.
But something had to be done. Marshaling his thoughts, Sam reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his badge and identification. “My name’s Sam,” he told Courtney, “just like Susan said. I’m a detective with the police department.” He offered the leather folder that held the badge and ID to the child. “Want to hold it?”
Courtney was still looking wary, but she did raise one small hand to take the folder.
“I don’t wear a uniform,” Sam went on, “because that scares people off sometimes. I try to look like just anybody on the street.” As he said it, he realized that wouldn’t make any sense to the child. If she’d never seen a man with long hair, she wasn’t going to believe that he looked like just anybody on the street, and he wasn’t about to tell her about rapists, pushers, and pimps. “Do you really think my hair’s too long?”
Courtney nodded.
“I could cut it if that would make you feel better.”
She moved her head and shoulder in a way that said she didn’t know whether that would make her feel better or not.
