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At the moment, it gave her the privacy to grab a thong and a scrap of lace with underwire and get them on before pulling on a robe and heading back into the bathroom to semidry her hair. Just enough to get it up in a twist. Any more than that would dry it out.
“How often do you wash your hair?” Tatum asked, coming in to sit on the counter and watch as Talia expertly flipped the long blond strands up and around her hand. Hooker’s hair, she thought, knowing full well that it had made her a lot of money over the years. She should cut it. Dye it.
But she’d always loved her hair. Even as a little kid.
“Three times a week,” she said.
“I only do two.” Tatum picked up her can of hairspray, read the label. “Otherwise, it gets too dry.”
“Have you been using the hydrating conditioner I gave you?”
“Yeah. And the detangler, too.”
“It’s only been a couple of months. Give it time. Your hair will be soft as a baby’s by summer.”
She liked to dress before applying her makeup—so as not to smear anything on her clothes. But Tatum was sitting there. Watching her.
“I wish I could do that as quickly as you,” she said, watching at Talia applied a coat of face cream to her skin, topped it with foundation and then began applying three shades of eye shadow, liner and mascara to her eyes. All to have the end result look as if she wasn’t wearing much makeup at all.
And she didn’t want Tatum to ever be as quick as she was at the artifice. Going from lap dance back to the stage in five minutes hadn’t left her with much time for touching up her makeup. Leaving a bedroom where she’d just been slapped in the face by her husband, to go out and meet his guests, hadn’t left much time for covering up, either.
But she’d managed.
“How about getting me some coffee?” she asked as she added a bit of blush to finish.
“Sure, mocha or dark roast?” She and Tatum had shopped together for the little cups of coffee that went with Sedona’s one-cup machine. She’d said she didn’t need it at Tanner’s house as they’d never just drink one cup of coffee there.
“Dark roast.”
As soon as Tatum slid off the counter, Talia threw on the light purple blouse and beige silk-lined pants her sister had chosen for her. Before she was in the wedged sandals Tatum had also chosen, her sister was back, placing a cup of coffee on the bathroom counter.
“Wear this,” she said, pulling her favorite pendant out of Talia’s jewelry box. It was an inch-long hand, decorated with colorful little stones, and on a fairly short gold chain. Tatum found the matching earrings and laid them out, as well.
The sisters had ordered the ensemble off a home shopping television network to commemorate the first time Tatum spent the night with her in the beach house. Tatum had picked a piece, too. Talia was still paying them both off.
“You never told me why you’re here,” Talia said as she gave herself one last glance in the mirror.
“I just wanted to see you,” Tatum said. Then added, “I’m on my way to the Stand for a session and...I’d hoped you’d stop by last night...”
Oh, God, she was failing her little sister again. “You should have called,” she said, not bothering to hide the sorrow on her face as she faced the beautiful young woman Tatum had become. “I’d have been there in a heartbeat if I’d known you needed me.”
“Chill, big sis,” Tatum said, touching Talia’s wrist lightly. “It wasn’t me I was concerned about. It’s you. And I didn’t call because I didn’t want to bother you, but I worried about you all night. Yesterday was your last day with Kent.”
“Yeah, but you don’t need to worry. I’m fine.”
“That’s why you spent the night with his collage?”
Talia meant to brush past her sister, down the hall and out the door. She was going to be late for work if she didn’t get a move on. Instead, she stood there helplessly, her eyes filling with tears.
“He’s...” She shook her head. “No, never mind. I’m fine.”
“You can see him again, Tal,” Tatum said, following her through the house and out the door, double-checking that Talia had locked it.
“No.”
“It was in your adoption agreement. You can contact his father and at least ask if—”
“No.” Talia was okay now, her purse in hand on her way to work. Where expensive clothes and good jewelry were the only things she’d have to worry about. That and trying to help women whose bodies weren’t perfect look good.
“Just...think about it, okay?” Tatum asked, standing in between Talia and the driver’s-side car door.
“It would be a selfish thing to do.” She said out loud what she’d been telling herself all night long.
She had to contact someone, though. The more she’d studied Kent’s finished product, without the boy there to distract her, the more things she’d seen that concerned her.
He hadn’t been overt, of course. He was too smart for that. But somehow those bad words had made it from the trash to his poster. Not the exact letters, of course. These were much smaller. And partially hidden. He’d used letters as borders on a number of pictures and she’d thought him creative. Until she’d seen the ones she’d prohibited earlier in the week. He must have pieced them together from magazines at home and slipped them onto the collage without her noticing.
“Not if you’re doing it for me,” Tatum said. “And him. Did you ever think that maybe he’d like to know he has an aunt? Or maybe I could be a friend to him now that his mom’s gone? Kind of like a big sister.”
There were things she should say. A right way to handle this. Talia stood silently.
“Well, anyway, just think about it,” Tatum said, stepping back from the door.
Talia nodded. Tatum backed up a few more steps.
“I love you, Tal.” Her sweet voice carried across the driveway.
“I love you, too, Baby Tay.” She wanted more than anything to make things right with Tatum. Needed to do so if she was ever going to be right with her soul.
Tatum’s frown turned into a huge grin, and Talia figured she’d done okay. This time.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_827a3140-e76d-50f6-b7bf-ddf396ff23f3)
SHERMAN PACED. BECAUSE what he wanted to do was haul his son out of bed, into the office and stand there while Kent opened the restricted file folder on his mother’s computer.
His computer.
Dr. Jordon had told him the key to reaching Kent was patience. If he came on strong, the boy was just going to clam up, get defensive. Kent was pushing Sherman away. He needed to know that he was loved, no matter how much he acted out. He was testing Sherman, to see if he could make Sherman leave him, too.
Or some such thing.
It made sense. Sherman got it, logically. And he was beside himself with worry, disappointment and a bit of anger, too, as he stood there locked out of a computer in his own home, and waited.
As it turned out, Kent slept until eight. In spite of the vacuuming Sherman had done. And in spite of the number of times he’d let the screen door slam shut behind him after spotting a weed in the juniper tree bed from the living-room window, or checking on the mail in case he’d missed it the night before, or making sure the hose was wound up.
Maybe he’d wanted to let the door slam a number of times to get his son up and out of bed. That was possible, too.
Sherman had a bowl of sugared cereal sitting on the counter, ready for milk, and pushed the button down on the toaster to cook the bread he’d had waiting there.
He poured milk over his own oat cereal and joined Kent at the table. He talked about their plans to go to the batting cages later that afternoon. About a game they were going to watch that night. He asked his son if hot dogs sounded good for dinner.
He made it until Kent came out of his room in jeans that were too pristine to belong to a little boy and a game-day jersey tucked into them before calling his son into the office.
“Log on for me,” he said, pointing to Kent’s computer.
Without hesitating, the boy did just that. And then plopped down into his chair.
“Show me what’s new,” Sherman said next.
Kent took him through a couple of new homework folders. Showed him a new level he’d reached on a downloaded video game. A cartoon game where he had to figure out increasingly difficult puzzles to move from one level to the next. Nothing to do with death, dying or killing. The boy was not allowed to do any online gaming at all. Sherman wasn’t chancing what he might come across or be asked to do during the game chats. But Kent didn’t seem to mind.
Leaning forward in his own chair, which he’d pulled over, Sherman followed Kent’s explanations, praising him where praise had been earned. And slowly started to crumble a bit inside.
Kent wasn’t going to show him the folder. He knew it as surely as he knew he was sitting there. The boy had just accessed the folder that week, though Sherman had been able to ascertain earlier by clicking on its properties that it had existed for almost a year.
“That’s it,” Kent finally said, dropping back in the chair that was too big for him. His head was resting against the back of the chair, which meant that his back nearly covered the seat of it.
“You sure?” Sherman asked. He’d have crossed his fingers behind his back if he’d been his son’s age.
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t done anything else on this computer this week.”
“Nope.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nope.”
Kent’s heel tapped on the floor, his expression placid.
“You know what happens if I find out you’re lying to me.” Just checking. Or reminding.
“I lose my right to my own computer. I have to do homework on the laptop that’s offline and empty of all games.”
“Right.” He waited. Giving Kent the chance to think on it and come clean.
The boy had to know he was going to bust him. He knew the folder was there. And he’d also know that Sherman knew something. He’d never grilled him before.
And maybe he should have.
Or...
Maybe he should leave Kent to his privacy. The idea was tempting. It couldn’t be a permanent condition. He was going to have to know what was going on. But maybe he should speak with Dr. Jordon first. Maybe he’d like a good, relaxing weekend with his son before they got up Monday morning and had to slay dragons again.
Yeah, maybe. He could keep an eye on Kent all weekend. Make sure that the boy didn’t access whatever was in the troubling folder.
Or maybe he should give Kent time alone in the office and wait for him to think it was safe to open the folder. Maybe he should bust him then, with the evidence on the screen...
Duplicity had never been his way. He wasn’t usually a coward, either.
And since when did he need a psychologist telling him how to discipline his son?
He amended that last thought. He’d needed it since Brooke’s death, of course. But no matter how much Kent was struggling...
“I can’t abide lying in this house, Kent,” he said aloud. There was no attack here. Nothing to push Kent into defensive mode. There was only impenetrable fact.
“I’m not lying.” His son looked him straight in the eye.
And left Sherman no choice but to lean forward, take the boy’s mouse and find the incriminating folder. Kent, still leaning back as though he hadn’t a care in the world, watched him. Sherman clicked to open the folder and got the password protection screen.
“Open it,” he told his son.
Sitting up, Kent did so, quickly enough that even though he was watching, Sherman didn’t catch the password. Clearly, it was one they’d never used before. He’d tried everything he could think of while his son slept in.
The folder opened, and Sherman blinked. “There’s nothing there.”
“I know.”
Could Kent have come across some elaborate program that allowed him to erase the contents of a folder upon opening it with some password keystroke?
There was no other way the boy could have emptied that folder. Unless he’d done it earlier that week and that was why he’d accessed it.
But then why leave it there at all, if he was going to empty it?
“What was in there?”
“Nothing.”
“The folder’s been there almost a year.”
“Yeah.”
If he wasn’t mistaken his son was hiding a grin. But not a fun one. No, his eyes took on almost a sly look. A knowing look. If a ten-year-old could manage such a thing.
“Did you create it?” Kent seemed willing to answer anything, so he was going to ask everything he could think of.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To see if you were really checking up on me like you said you were going to do. I created a password-protected folder just to see if you’d find it and ask me about it. It took you almost a year. Good going, Dad.”
Sherman sat back, his fingers on either side of his chin. He’d shaved in a hurry. Missed some spots. He ran a hand through his hair. He wore his longer than Kent’s now that Brooke was gone. She’d liked it short. He liked it more casual and...
“You were testing me,” he said to the boy, just to clarify.
“Yeah.”
