“I’m not sure.”
John waited a beat. “What about you? Any women in your life?”
“No. There was someone, but…”
She was married. Still, his relationship with Katie Gardner had been comfortable and easy. Probably because there was no danger of commitment. She’d loved her husband, but he was absent and neglectful. They’d even separated a time or two, though they always got back together again.
“But what?” John asked.
Because he was embarrassed by the affair, Nick couldn’t tell his friend the truth. “It didn’t work out. End of story.”
“All right. But I’m here if you need to talk about it.”
“Sure.”
“And do me a favor? Be careful with Maddie. Don’t oppose her on everything.”
“I— You’re right. This has all been a shock to me. And I was blindsided by the changes around here.”
“They’re solid ones.”
“Maybe. I don’t know how I’m going to manage that support group thing. The thought of spilling my guts in front of people I don’t know well, especially my colleagues, makes me crazy.” He sighed. “And, yes, I do get the irony. I ask clients to do exactly that. It’s the old ‘physician heal thyself’ cliché.”
John chuckled. “You’re not alone. A lot of mental-health workers find opening up difficult. The first time I talked about Zoe and what her death did to mine and Lucy’s marriage, I broke down.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“So, young man, if I can put it out there, you can, too.” He stood. “Now grab your car keys.”
“Why? I want to make some informational posters to put up on the walls temporarily.”
“Not now. Our church members are still bringing us food every week and there’s a spaghetti dinner waiting as we speak. Lucy would hit the roof if she knew I’d left you working here. You’re coming home with me.”
“Like the prodigal son?”
His friend’s face sobered. “Nick, why do you continue to see yourself like that?”
“Like what?”
“You know.” He nodded to the door. “And in case you don’t, Lucy will fill you in while she stuffs you with pasta.”
CHAPTER THREE
NICK STARED at the eight young faces in the room and felt a surge of adrenaline rush though him. “Hi, everybody. Thanks for getting here on time.”
Some of the kids said hello. A couple watched him with suspicious eyes. A boy in a beanbag chair, which he’d dragged to a far corner, was reading the posters Nick had tacked onto the wall. Another, in a wheelchair, doodled in a notebook on his lap. A girl, who’d taken the futon, appeared to be text messaging on her cell phone.
The door behind him opened before he could continue, and Nick sighed. It must be the new counselor. Though Maddie hadn’t mentioned a name, she’d assured him someone would be here. This morning they’d had a row about his paying for the furniture and he hadn’t seen her since. He pasted on a phony smile and glanced over his shoulder.
“Hi, sorry I’m late.”
“Hi, Madelyn.” He cocked his head. “What do you mean, you’re late?”
“I’m your second counselor.”
Like hell. On Monday, he’d wondered how this situation could get any worse. Now he knew. He’d had a bad enough time being around her for the three days he’d been back at the Center. There was no way he was going to share counseling duties with her.
She smiled at the kids. “Hello, everyone.”
Nick was about to ask to speak to her in the hall when he noticed the expression on the face of one of the girls. She’d yet to take a seat and had been wandering around the room as if she was going to bolt. When she saw Maddie, the stiffness seemed to leave her body. “Dr. Walsh, hi.”
Maddie walked over to the girl. “Hi, Kara.” She sat in a director’s chair and Kara followed suit in one close by.
Nick gave them a weak smile. “Obviously, I’m surprised we have another counselor. But glad for the help. Welcome, Madelyn.”
She nodded.
Stretching his legs, Nick addressed the group. “So, here we are.” He pointed to the food he’d set out on a low table—chips, cookies and some fruit. “Help yourself to snacks first and there’s soda in the fridge by the door. I’ll give you a few minutes to get what you want before we start.”
When the kids began to mill about, he stood and crossed the room. Kara had gone to get a soda, so he took her chair and leaned in close to Maddie. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The red tunic and pants she wore darkened the color of her eyes. “Just what I said.”
“Maddie, no. This is a bad idea.”
“It’s the only idea.” Her jaw tightened. “Do you think I’d be here if it weren’t?”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“This isn’t the time to get into that, Nick.”
When he saw the kids returning to their seats, he stood. “We’ll talk later. I want some answers.” Back in their midst, he took a sip from the bottle of water he’d put by his chair. Its cool wetness didn’t soothe the heat in his throat. With a poise he didn’t feel, he started his intro. “What I’d like to do today is get to know you better and hopefully have you get to know each other some.” Actually, he’d memorized the contents of their folders and would only have to refer to the clipboard by his side in an emergency. “Then I’d like to talk about how our group will run. You all are going to decide much of how we’ll operate here.”
A snort from the corner. He glanced at the kid’s name tag. “What, Hector?”
“Real choices, dude, or phony ones like they give us in the group home?”
Hector Santos and his twin sister Carla had been placed in a teen shelter after their father had brutally beaten and killed their mother—in front of both sixteen-year-olds. The elder Santos had been put in jail, with no bail, and the kids were going to have to testify in court about what they’d seen. Meanwhile, they were headed to foster care.
“I hope I give you real choices. But if I don’t, you got the job of telling me I’m not living up to what I said I’d do.”
The kid shrugged.
“Remember, Hector—and all of you—I’m fully aware that you’re the victims of crimes, and not the perpetrators. Nor are you at-risk juvenile delinquents. This is your group. Together, we have to find the best ways to help you deal with any issues caused by your victimization.”
Most of the kids nodded or made eye contact at his acknowledgment of their status.
“Let’s start with introductions.” He patted his chest near the square that held his name. “I’m Nick Logan. I have a bachelor’s degree in social work and a masters in psychology, but more important, I’ve worked with teenagers extensively in the past.” He held up a sheet. “On here, along with other information, are the e-mail addresses of three kids from my last job who’ve agreed to tell you what kind of guy I am.”
That brought surprise to many of their faces.
“What do we call you?” A skinny boy with red hair that looked like he’d chopped it himself asked the question. J. J. Camp. Before his fifteenth birthday, J. J. Camp had fallen victim to a series of tragic incidents.