Fugitive Family

“Where’d you live before?”

He took his eyes off the road for a moment and studied her. He had blue eyes, stunning blue eyes, the color of cobalt. Not what she expected. Not with Indian black hair. She’d expected brooding dark-brown eyes.

“We moved around a lot. Not sure I’d call any place home. Where did you live before moving here?”

Okay, he changed the subject, from him to her, but at least she had a conversation going. “I’m from Tucson, Arizona. My family is still there.”

“So what brought you to Sherman?” he asked. Not that he looked as if he cared to hear the answer. His attention was on everything but her.

“A bit of wanderlust. I graduated three months ago and didn’t want to stay in Arizona. I wanted to travel, see the world. I have a good friend in Omaha, so I explored Nebraska a bit online to see where teachers were needed, and then applied here. The rest is history.”

He didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t been listening.

“Like my car,” she added.

He shook his head. “I deserved that. I do have something on my mind. Today’s just not been a great day.”

“Fine.”

To her surprise, he didn’t react to her sarcastic fine. He drove a few more blocks, pulled into a white clapboard house, and came around to open the door for her.

“You might as well come in. It always takes Amber some time to gather her things.”

They’d only taken two steps toward the house when noise erupted from inside.

“That’s my wild child,” Greg said.

Something loud hit the screen door. Almost immediately came the sounds of “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

“She sure gets excited when she sees you.”

“Yeah,” Greg admitted. “I hope that never changes.”

It was the most human thing he’d said so far. But then, he’d stopped looking up and down the street and was focused completely on the scene in front of him. An elderly woman opened the door wide enough for Amber Bond to squeeze out and a bundle of energy, dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, launched through the air and into Greg’s arms.

“Daddy!”

Lisa watched as relief relaxed his features. He hugged his daughter tightly and choked out, “Amber, did you have a good day?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is your first-grade teacher. Daddy managed to hit her car with his car and she needs a ride home.”

“You’re my new teacher?”

“I am.” Lisa bent down, eye level to the little girl, meeting a pair of blue eyes the same shade as Greg’s, and said, “I’ll bet you’re six years old and that you are a good artist.”

“How’d you know? Daddy! How’d she know?”

“Teachers have to be pretty smart.”

Greg swung Amber up into his arms and held the front door open for Lisa. She followed him into a room where every surface screamed family. Photos dominated the walls. Lisa immediately got homesick. She’d gone two weeks without seeing her mother or sisters. She’d never been away from them before.

A gray-haired woman turned down the television and then offered Lisa her hand. “Since Greg seems to have forgotten his manners, I’m Lydia Griffin.”

“Amber’s babysitter and best friend,” Greg added, putting Amber down. “Besides me, she’s the only one allowed to pick Amber up from school.”

“Overprotective father,” Mrs. Griffin said.

Lisa figured that.

“Wise father,” Greg countered.

“This is my new teacher,” Amber announced before plopping to the floor to carefully load coloring books, lined notebooks, crayons, pencils and loose paper into a backpack. She had a place for everything and everything went into its place. “Daddy hit her car, and she already knows I’m a good drawer.”

“Way to start the school year, Greg,” Mrs. Griffin said before scrutinizing Lisa. “So you’re the one taking over for Karen.”

“Yes. She showed up at school today with her new baby. Everyone was excited,” Lisa said.

“Daddy, look.”

“We didn’t think that girl would ever get married.” Mrs. Griffin chuckled. “Then she met, married and quit working, all in a school year.”

“A lot can happen in a short time,” Lisa agreed.

“Daddy, look.”

Finally, the grown-ups looked. The sound was off, but the picture said it all: a bank robbery. The grainy surveillance camera caught the bank robber as he entered and exited. He wore a gray jumpsuit and some sort of mask.

“They’re replaying that bank robbery from earlier this year,” Mrs. Griffin said. “They found the wife’s body. It’s on all the channels.”

“Daddy, look,” Amber repeated. “You’re on TV.”

TWO

Amber’s eyes remained glued to the television. Mrs. Griffin and Lisa turned to look at Greg. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He absolutely did not know how to handle this.

Mrs. Griffin’s look was one of amusement. She’d been watching Amber all summer and knew about his little girl’s imagination. She’d seen the drawings Amber made of her friends, her cat and her history. History being what worried Greg. He suspected that Mrs. Griffin had a vague idea that somewhere, at some time, existed a mother with curly blond hair who liked going to the park, who liked to sit at a dinner table and eat pizza, and who liked to read books to a little girl who sat in her lap. He hoped Mrs. Griffin didn’t question why sometimes the daddy in the pictures had brown hair instead of black, or why the little girl was blond. Mrs. Griffin probably knew Amber had lived in a two-story house, and it had been made of brick. She probably even suspected that Greg, judging by the cars Amber drew and the suit and tie Amber drew him in, had at one time worked in a white-collar job.

Lisa Jacoby had a look of pure curiosity. She knew little or nothing about Greg and Amber Bond, except what last year’s kindergarten teacher, Gillian Magee, had managed to figure out during the last month of school—that the little girl drew all the time and that Greg was a bit of a hovering parent.

Truth. Always stick as close to the truth as possible.

Greg managed what he hoped was a straight face and said, “The bank robber is wearing what’s called a grub mask. I bought one once, a long time ago, for a costume party.”

“It scared me,” Amber agreed.

“What exactly is a grub mask?” Mrs. Griffin asked.