*
The color of angels, of heaven, of eternity surrounded Isleen in its infinite embrace. But she could find no solace in the space. With hyper-vivid clarity, she remembered what had happened the last time she was here. Something had entered her body and forced her to watch a woman being murdered.
Bristles of fear pricked her skin. She spun around, expecting to see something or someone standing behind her, but there was nothing beyond the eternal whiteness. For some reason, that scared her worse than if a chainsaw-wielding madman had stood there. Adrenaline primed her muscles and she couldn’t stay still, waiting for whatever horrible thing was about to happen. She ran. She charged through the white nothingness, trying to outrun a phantom.
The atmosphere shifted. A subtle change in energy and function. Color invaded and shimmered, abstract and borderless, but then morphed, solidifying into shapes and images. A landscape formed and focused. She stopped running, mesmerized by the transformation.
She stood in a… Gosh, it had to be a waiting room. A waiting room? Even with its cheerful blue paint and overflowing bins of toys, the place felt devoid of goodness, on the cusp of evil. Which made no logical sense. But then the prairie had seemed beautiful at first too.
A lone man sat hunched over in the farthest corner of the room. His elbows rested on his knees, his close-shaved head hung as if it were too heavy a burden for him to carry. The man’s shoulders shook, and for a brief moment Isleen thought he might be laughing, but it wasn’t quiet laughter that reached her ears. It was hushed sobs. He swiped a hand over his eyes and sniffled in that way little boys do when they are trying to be brave.
The collective of her pain recognized his pain, and her heart dictated that she do something to soothe him. She understood how it felt to be alone with anguish. It wasn’t a fate she’d wish on anyone.
She tried to go to him, told her legs to move, to walk, to go to the man and offer him whatever meager comfort she possessed. Not one muscle responded to the message her brain sent.
“Mr. Goodspeed?”
Inside her skin, Isleen jerked at the unexpected voice. Her head turned and her eyes drifted in their sockets—only she wasn’t the one controlling her head, her eyes, or her body’s movements.
A woman who looked barely out of her teen years and still possessed the crisp beauty of youth stood in the entry to the waiting room. She took in the man with his hunched posture and the quiet sobs, but her face remained devoid of expression. “Mr. Goodspeed.” His name came out in the firm authority of someone who knew what they were doing.
Isleen’s head moved back to see Mr. Goodspeed.
He shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes and ground the wetness away. He sucked in a shuddering breath. “Yes. I’m sorry. I just… I just… I can’t believe…”
“I’m Marissa Main”—impatience permeated her tone—“lead investigator for Sunny County Children’s Services. I’ll be supervising your visit today.”
“I’m being investigated?” Confusion dominated Mr. Goodspeed’s tone.
“Allegations of abuse have been made. Right now, that’s all we have—allegations. It is my job to investigate those claims. Today’s supervised visit is one way of working toward that goal. By seeing how you interact with your son, by seeing how your son reacts to you—”
“My ex is stuffing his head full of shit.” Mr. Goodspeed stood and moved toward Marissa with the loose-limbed walk of a farm boy used to strolling through his fields. He towered over the investigator, but the way his shoulders hunched forward and his head hung on his neck lent him the defeated, saddened look of someone used to being a victim.
No way. No way would Isleen ever let herself look like that. Pitiful.
“Ever since the divorce, my ex has made my life miserable. It’s been one thing after another.” The look he gave Marissa overflowed with intensity. “I bet she told you that I drugged her for sex. That I hit her. That I locked her and Rory out of the house during a snowstorm. That I punish Rory by busting his ass with a belt. Oh, and her favorite claim is that I get off on touching him.”
Marissa nodded her head at each of the ugly statements, but wore the best poker face. “Those are serious claims.”
“Rory is four years old. He’ll say whatever his mother tells him to say. This isn’t the first time she’s said I hurt Rory. Every few months she concocts a new story. Always right after I’ve had him for the weekend. I’m sure you have a record. If you look closely, none of this started until she left me. Doesn’t that tell you something? She’s trying to take him away from me. And why aren’t you concerned with her filling his head with lies about me? I want you to open an investigation on her. Fathers have rights too.”