Read Online A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) by Sarah Lovett - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Lovett
Ads: Link
stood quietly outside the partially closed door. Through the gap, she could see Nellie standing with her arms wrapped around herself; the woman looked weary. The child was curled up, tucked in bed, crying softly. One small fist enclosed the silver medallion.
Minutes later, Nellie joined Sylvia in the kitchen, where she begged her to stay for tea. Sylvia agreed—swayed by the desperation on the woman's face. While Nellie placed two mugs of water in the microwave, the telephone rang. She answered on the first ring, keeping her voice low so that Serena would not be disturbed. "This is Mrs. Trujillo."
Sylvia finished making the chamomile tea and sipped the hot liquid while Nellie carried on a brief conversation. Coming from the street, she heard the faint sound of barking dogs.
Nellie hung up the phone and turned to Sylvia. "They got in touch with the social worker. She may stop by later." Her expression shifted quickly to concern. "I wonder if you'd talk to her about this?"
Sylvia nodded. "I'll call her this afternoon." She held out her business card. "And I want you to call me if you have any questions. Or if anything changes. Anything. Especially if she starts talking!"
Nellie Trujillo nodded as she accepted the card, and her eyes swept over Sylvia's bare fingers.
"You don't have children of your own?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"But you specialize in kid psychology?"
"No."
The woman looked confused. "Then why . . . ?"
Sylvia frowned. I'm here via a circuitous route that includes managed care and downsized government contracts in addition to an absentee colleague and a boss who won't leave well enough alone . "Let's just blame it on the HMO's."
Nellie Trujillo's fingers tamped stray hairs behind one ear. She seemed to accept the explanation, which wasn't surprising, since she was a veteran of the state's foster-care system. She bit her lip, then said, "About Serena . . . that child's from another world."
When Sylvia didn't respond, Mrs. Trujillo continued. "I feel bad about this, but I really don't think I can handle her. My other kids . . ." She trailed off.
Sylvia nodded. After a moment, she said, "I think Serena may need special care. It's not your fault. We'll get it sorted out."
Relieved, Nellie smiled hesitantly, but her gaze was steadfast. "Foster kids—whether they mean to or not—sooner or later, they break your heart."
Sylvia walked silently to the kitchen door. She'd heard the warning in the woman's words, but she couldn't think of any response.
CHAPTER SEVEN
R ENZO S ANTOS PARKED his Suburban a hundred feet from the modest one-story house on De Fouri Street. The quiet neighborhood had a muted quality, as if it were covered with soft gray netting. The old Sanctuario was quiet, apparently deserted. Along the street, the half dozen houses seemed to fade with the late afternoon light. The stillness was broken only when a noisy jay called from one of the staunch old cottonwoods.
Renzo pulled the dark blue baseball cap low over his eyes and took a slow breath. As he'd anticipated, the social worker had led him to the child's foster home. He'd realized he was in the right place as soon as the lady answered her door, stepping onto the front porch. He'd seen her at the courthouse that morning. He'd mistaken her for a clerk, an assumption that had cost him most of a day. But finally, he had the child within his reach.
After the social worker's departure, Renzo had driven the neighborhood, restlessly preparing himself for work. The surrounding streets meandered without coherent design, and the result was a numbing maze that reminded him of Mexico. But it wasn't Mexico; it was smoother, cleaner, less desperate, less alive. It made him hunger for the border.
He stepped out of the Suburban and walked
Minutes later, Nellie joined Sylvia in the kitchen, where she begged her to stay for tea. Sylvia agreed—swayed by the desperation on the woman's face. While Nellie placed two mugs of water in the microwave, the telephone rang. She answered on the first ring, keeping her voice low so that Serena would not be disturbed. "This is Mrs. Trujillo."
Sylvia finished making the chamomile tea and sipped the hot liquid while Nellie carried on a brief conversation. Coming from the street, she heard the faint sound of barking dogs.
Nellie hung up the phone and turned to Sylvia. "They got in touch with the social worker. She may stop by later." Her expression shifted quickly to concern. "I wonder if you'd talk to her about this?"
Sylvia nodded. "I'll call her this afternoon." She held out her business card. "And I want you to call me if you have any questions. Or if anything changes. Anything. Especially if she starts talking!"
Nellie Trujillo nodded as she accepted the card, and her eyes swept over Sylvia's bare fingers.
"You don't have children of your own?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"But you specialize in kid psychology?"
"No."
The woman looked confused. "Then why . . . ?"
Sylvia frowned. I'm here via a circuitous route that includes managed care and downsized government contracts in addition to an absentee colleague and a boss who won't leave well enough alone . "Let's just blame it on the HMO's."
Nellie Trujillo's fingers tamped stray hairs behind one ear. She seemed to accept the explanation, which wasn't surprising, since she was a veteran of the state's foster-care system. She bit her lip, then said, "About Serena . . . that child's from another world."
When Sylvia didn't respond, Mrs. Trujillo continued. "I feel bad about this, but I really don't think I can handle her. My other kids . . ." She trailed off.
Sylvia nodded. After a moment, she said, "I think Serena may need special care. It's not your fault. We'll get it sorted out."
Relieved, Nellie smiled hesitantly, but her gaze was steadfast. "Foster kids—whether they mean to or not—sooner or later, they break your heart."
Sylvia walked silently to the kitchen door. She'd heard the warning in the woman's words, but she couldn't think of any response.
CHAPTER SEVEN
R ENZO S ANTOS PARKED his Suburban a hundred feet from the modest one-story house on De Fouri Street. The quiet neighborhood had a muted quality, as if it were covered with soft gray netting. The old Sanctuario was quiet, apparently deserted. Along the street, the half dozen houses seemed to fade with the late afternoon light. The stillness was broken only when a noisy jay called from one of the staunch old cottonwoods.
Renzo pulled the dark blue baseball cap low over his eyes and took a slow breath. As he'd anticipated, the social worker had led him to the child's foster home. He'd realized he was in the right place as soon as the lady answered her door, stepping onto the front porch. He'd seen her at the courthouse that morning. He'd mistaken her for a clerk, an assumption that had cost him most of a day. But finally, he had the child within his reach.
After the social worker's departure, Renzo had driven the neighborhood, restlessly preparing himself for work. The surrounding streets meandered without coherent design, and the result was a numbing maze that reminded him of Mexico. But it wasn't Mexico; it was smoother, cleaner, less desperate, less alive. It made him hunger for the border.
He stepped out of the Suburban and walked
Similar Books
