A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(24)

Relief washed over him. She pulled him into the group and made introductions. Art nodded to Olivia's mother, Sarah Richards, and to Mike McKibben, Brian's paternal grandfather. He'd met them several times at school events.

"How is he?" Art asked.

"Stable," she said.

"Good." Art's tongue tied in a knot. "Good." It was all he could say.

Olivia returned to the couch and sat next to her mother. Sarah was a tiny, sweet-faced woman, and the author of a series of children's books featuring a scalawag of a puppy named Brian the Bloodhound.

Art knew the stories well. Emily adored them. The dog was allergic to flowers, but he loved their scent, so his nose was always stuffy. Stuffy noses are no good for finding things, including the way home. He managed to make it there safely in every book but not without plenty of adventures.

"I named the bloodhound after Brian because our Brian was always wandering away," she said as if she were continuing a conversation that had begun before Art arrived. "As soon as he could walk, he took off running." She squeezed Olivia's hand.

"I shouldn't have left him," Olivia said and rested her forehead on her other hand.

Mike McKibben spoke in a gruff tone. "Get that out of your mind, Olivia. I've been sending patrol cars out after that boy since he was three years old." Mike had been an investigator with the Orange County Sheriff's Department before his retirement.

Olivia groaned as if in pain.

"Now, I didn't mean it that way," Mike said, alarmed. "I just meant Brian has an adventuresome spirit."

"Trying to keep him in the house is like trying to keep in a cat that's used to roaming. They're always looking for an open door," Olivia's mother said.

Olivia's ex-husband patted her shoulder. She pulled away from him and withdrew her hand from her mother's. She huddled in the corner of the couch, wrapped in her own arms and her grief.

When Art was a kid, he'd shot a dove in a tree outside his bedroom window. Not on purpose. He was messing around with his new BB gun and never saw it until it hit the ground.

He scooped it up and ran for the vet. The BB had broken the bird's wing. Unbelievably, it had lived. He fed and watered it for weeks, and one day it flew away from the shoebox nest on his windowsill. That same feeling, guilt mixed with crazy hope, filled him now.

A shrill voice disrupted the quiet scene. "Olivia, Mike, I'm so sorry." Amy Partridge from the PTA stomped across the lobby toward them.

Olivia rose.

Amy bustled over to her and air-kissed her cheeks. "It's terrible. Just terrible. How is he?"

Olivia explained in more detail this time. Brian had a few broken bones, but brain damage was the doctor's biggest concern. The night before the swelling in his head had reached dangerous levels. After releasing the pressure, they placed him in a medically induced coma to give him a chance to heal. It remained to be seen how he would function when he was backed off the drugs.

"This could have been any of our children," Amy said. "It's a perfect example of why we have to create safe drop off and pickup routes at school. The way it is now, it's just plain dangerous."

Anger rose like bile in Art's throat. Brian was nowhere near the school when the accident happened. He couldn't believe she was using this situation to push Donald Pratt's pet cause. He opened his mouth to say so, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

"Principal Bishop." Brian's grandfather was at his side, speaking low.

Art sucked in his breath. "Mike," he said.

"Thanks for coming, for waving the school flag. Olivia needs the support. She's beating herself up right now."

"Of course. Brian's a favorite of mine."

"I'm glad to hear that. I know he was in trouble, suspended I heard."

"Yes." The word felt heavy in Art's mouth.

"He isn't a bad boy, just impulsive. He needs a father in the home. I try to spend as much time with him as I can but..." The man mopped at his eyes with an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief, balled it up and stuck it in his pants pocket.

"He's a good kid," Art said and stared at the gray institutional carpeting under his feet. He thought of his own kids. Impulsive, foolish, but at heart, good kids. Emily had been after Art to take her camping for months. He'd make reservations for a campsite in Big Bear next week. Spending time with his children suddenly seemed critical.

"Mike, I'm so sorry about your grandson." Amy left the group by the couch, walked right past Art like he wasn't there and offered her cheek to Mike.

He dutifully delivered a kiss. While the two talked, Art's eyes wandered to Olivia. Some of her visitors were saying their goodbyes. He should talk to her; find out what he could do to help.

"So, I heard they were raped."

The strange comment boomed in the hushed room. Art's attention lurched to the conversation between Amy and Mike.

"I'm retired. I get my news from the papers like everyone else," Mike said.

"Oh, come on. You must hear things from your old buddies at the department." Amy's voice took on a wheedling tone.

"Not much." Mike shifted his weight and looked over the top of her head.

"Not much is more than the rest of us." Amy's eyes locked on Art. "Your wife is a real estate agent, isn't she?"