Chapter One
Night shadows rippled in the waters of the lake and flickered through the needled branches of tall ponderosa pine trees standing at the back of the mountain hotel. A small girl, wandering sleepily onto her second-floor balcony, heard murmuring voices and saw two men walking toward a stone wall at the edge of the water. As the child recognized her father, she leaned against the railing and called out to him, but her voice was lost in the muffled sound of gunshot. Her father slumped to the ground, and in paralyzed terror, the little girl watched as the man dragged Papa by the legs into the darkness of encroaching trees.
Dr. Steve Sherman touched the button on his intercom and alerted his secretary that he was ready for his next patient. As an attractive fair-haired woman and a little girl about four years old opened the door and came in, he walked toward them and offered his hand.
“Steve Sherman. I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Drake.”
“My pleasure, Doctor,” she responded politely. She had arresting blue eyes that regarded him rather coolly under thick, crescent-shaped eyelashes.
“And this pretty little girl must be Penny?” Steve smiled down at the blond, curly-headed child who was staring at him with unblinking eyes. Her posture was stiff, guarded, and the little girl’s tiny fingers visibly tightened on her mother’s hand.
The child had been referred to him by the Colorado Children’s Mental Health Clinic, and the unusual circumstances that had triggered her emotional withdrawal intrigued him. As a well-known child psychologist specializing in children’s trauma, Steve had gained a reputation as an authority on using play therapy as a means of defining and releasing emotional conflicts in children.
He’d carefully read the thick case-study file on the little girl, verifying that since the death of her father four months earlier, Penny Drake’s behavior had become erratic, defensive and antisocial, a complete reversal from the happy, outgoing child she had been before the tragedy. Without any promise of taking the case, he’d agreed to an initial interview with the child and her mother.
Ignoring the way Penny turned her head away and refused to make eye contact with him, Steve said warmly, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Penny.”
No response.
“Thank you, Doctor, for seeing us on such short notice.” Deanna answered politely, while at the same time trying to control her disappointment. Dr. Steve Sherman was not at all what Deanna had expected or hoped for. The casually dressed doctor looked more like he belonged on a golf course than in the office treating children who desperately needed help. He wore a polo shirt, open at the neck, allowing glimpses of chest hair that matched the slightly curling reddish-brown shocks of hair falling over his forehead. Tan slacks and loafers added to the youthful look, and Deanna guessed him to be in his early thirties. Her heart sank. She had expected a much older man. She desperately needed someone who was professionally competent and serious about helping her little girl.
“I assume that the Children’s Clinic sent you Penny’s records?” Deanna continued, endeavoring to put some kind of formality into the interview. Handling matters in an efficient, organized way was her nature and had been partly responsible for her success as a businesswoman.
“Why don’t we sit down?” Steve suggested pleasantly without answering, mentally noting her let’s-get-down-to-business tone. The elegance of her short layered blond hair and the way she held her head gave her a regal quality that matched her beautifully shaped mouth and firm chin. Deanna Drake’s negative vibes were a warning to ready himself for a challenge. This might be interesting.
“Have a seat…or a pillow, rather,” he invited as he pointed to a low round table surrounded by soft cushions placed in the center of the large room.
Deanna tried to keep her expression from revealing her reaction. Was the initial interview with this psychologist going to take place here, in this room which held no resemblance to a regular office? Except for a well-worn floral couch and a window seat, the only places to sit were the floor cushions and a few children’s chairs scattered around the room. A desk, a chair and some file cabinets were pushed into one corner, and the rest of the space was taken up with all kinds of children’s paraphernalia. Everything was shoved onto shelves without any visible sign of organization. A line of framed diplomas on the wall shared crowded space with large baseball posters, Mother Goose pictures, Sesame Street characters and childish artwork. How could the psychologist possibly expect to conduct a professional interview sitting on floor cushions around a table that held a pitcher of chocolate milk, a plate of cookies and several stuffed animals and puppets?
“The pillows are more comfortable than they look,” Steve reassured her, noting her hesitation. “Of course, Mrs. Drake, we can go into the conference room and conduct the interview there if you’d be more at ease…?” He let the sentence dangle like an unspoken challenge.
Deanna met his eyes without a flicker of her long lashes. “This will be fine.” She certainly wasn’t going to let this unorthodox therapist make her lose her composure.
“Good,” he said approvingly as if she’d passed some sort of test.
As Deanna sat down on one of the floor pillows, she was thankful that she had decided to wear white slacks and a yellow shirtwaist blouse instead of a summer dress. Trying to keep her legs covered with a short skirt would have been totally embarrassing. She gave Penny’s hand a reassuring squeeze as she eased her daughter down on the pillow next to her. Taking a deep breath, she tried to quell her nervousness.
Steve chose a cushion across the table from them, sat down and wound his long legs into a cross-legged sitting position. “Would you like a glass of chocolate milk?” he asked as if they were at some Mad Hatter’s tea party.
Deanna silently fumed, No, I don’t want any milk. I want to know if you can help my daughter. She hadn’t driven fifty miles down a mountain road from her home in Eagle Ridge to Denver, and also canceled some important business engagements, so she could play tea party. Without comment, Deanna took the glass he offered.
From the way Penny was watching her mother, Steve knew that the little girl had already picked up, with the intuitive perception of children, that her mother didn’t like Dr. Steve Sherman. He sighed. Not a good beginning. The first hurdle in successfully treating any child was gaining the parent’s confidence, and it didn’t take a degree in psychology to know that he was losing the first inning with Deanna Drake.
“I hope Penny likes chocolate milk,” Steve said as he set a glass in front of her. The child’s guarded look went from her mother to Steve and back to the milk. Then she set her little lips in a stubborn line and made no move to touch the glass.
Steve watched her while pretending to give all his attention to his own glass. As much as the little girl might want to drink the chocolate milk, she wouldn’t touch it. Why? What held her back? What was fueling her willpower and resistance? Although he’d had remarkable success working with traumatized children, he knew that when a psychosis was deeply-seated, the psyche protected itself at all costs.
Steve had read newspaper accounts of Benjamin Drake’s murder in the file, and he knew that they had found the child whimpering in a terrified state on her balcony, but whatever had happened on the night that Penny’s father had been shot still remained a mystery. She must have been a witness to the crime. Who knew what secrets were buried in Penelope Drake’s pretty little head? And equally important, would the child be put in danger if he was successful in breaking her silence about them?
“Would you like a cookie, Penny?” he asked, placing one beside the little girl’s untouched glass of milk. Then he took one for himself and laughed as he sniffed it. “Don’t they smell good. Freshly baked.”
Deanna tried to control her impatience. When she’d heard about Dr. Steve Sherman, the child psychologist who had just moved to the Denver area from California, her hopes had risen like released balloons. Maybe he was the miracle she’d been praying for. Maybe