Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

Tears rolled from Evan’s eyes. “I don’t want them to take you away! I just . . . I just got you.”

Johnny concentrated, shifting just his forearms, pushing them into slender paws and slipping from the cuffs. He kept this all confined behind him until he was certain that he was completely human again, then he reached over and pulled the crying boy into his arms.

Beyond the window, the detective stooped to get a better view inside the car even as he reached for his gun. Johnny waved him off. “It’s okay,” he said, to Evan and to the officer.

“No, it’s not,” Evan cried.

It hit Johnny that he was holding his kid . The tears of his kid were wetting his shirt, like a soothing balm and a fierce binding in one. Though he’d never seen Evan as an infant, had never diapered him or fed him or taken him to the school bus, this moment of simple human contact and affection was mightier than hearing the Rege confirm him. “Evan, he says there’s a warrant for my arrest. If I did something bad, the consequences of it are mine.”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t know.”

Evan sat back, sniffling. “How can you not know?”

“I don’t remember anything about my life, except the last eight and a half years. I was . . . I was abducted . . . kidnapped . . . and my memories were wiped away. I don’t remember your mother, and I never knew she was pregnant with you.”

“That’s why you haven’t been with me?”

“I didn’t know you existed, Evan. I swear it. Or I would have been here.”

Evan threw his arms around Johnny’s neck and held him so tight Johnny could scarcely breathe.

Listening to their conversation, Kurt was awed. To an eight-year-old, that almost insignificant connection of “liking cars” was enough. Enough to build on, enough to start a relationship.

He listened as John was firm with the kid and used logic that a youngster could follow, and Evan, potential future hooligan that he was, settled right down, compliant.

Kurt recognized that this kid wanted a father, wanted to be led and loved.

It was a revelation to him, to find that a brat like Evan yearned for the love of a father.

When John escaped his cuffs, Kurt was ready to draw his gun to maintain control of the situation, but John waved him down. As Kurt observed what was transpiring in the back of his car, the emotion on John Hampton’s face couldn’t be disguised by the tattoos. Kurt had seen all kinds of men as a cop. He recognized responsibility when he saw it.

He realized, too, that John “Newman” could have touted his status as Domn Lup, or even gone into a full-out transformation to avoid being captured. He had done nothing but shun his cuffs to console his crying son.

Minutes later, John had Evan crawl up front and unlock the doors.

Kurt slid into the driver’s seat.

“Evan,” Johnny said, “tell the man that you’re sorry for locking him out of his car.”

“I’m sorry for locking you out of your car.”

Kurt said sternly, “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t.”

“And I’m sorry for removing your handcuffs. If you need to put them back on me—”

Kurt shook his head. “No. There’s obviously no point. Besides, if you were going to try and flee, you’ve had ample chance.”

“Can you tell me more about the warrant? What am I supposed to have done?”

“You really don’t remember, do you? That bit in Cleveland wasn’t just a cover-up.”

“I don’t remember, but I want to. I don’t even know who my parents were. I just learned last night that my birth name was John Curtis Hampton. And . . . I would be grateful for anything you can tell me.”

Curtis? Kurt leaned and gathered up the files that Evan had kicked to the floor. He lifted the file marked “Hampton, John C.” Curtis with a C . Damn it, Elena . . . why’d you give him my name? He’d never before even considered what John’s middle name might be. He flipped through the file; there was no mention of the middle name . . . but the birthday . . . July twenty-fifth. About nine months after the Hallowe’en party.

Kurt’s hand covered his mouth, rubbed across his whole lower jaw. He could have been born prematurely. He could be another man’s son. His gaze shifted up to the rearview mirror. He resembled Elena. But that height, that cleft in his chin . . . Those could be mine.

This can’t be. It can’t.

If Brenda found out I cheated . . . I can’t lose her.

John was whispering reassuringly to Evan, “It’ll be okay.” He looked askance at Kurt. “Right? He’ll get back to his grandmother, and you and I will go clear all this up at the station.”

I’m an officer of SSTIX. I let my private pain over Elena’s death feed a hate for wæres, and now . . . now I find the Domn Lup is likely my own son. I can never speak of this, never let it get out. It would ruin my life in every way.

“John Curtis Hampton, you say? I’m very embarrassed to admit this, but I believe I’ve made a terrible mistake. . . .”

As Johnny drove into the driveway, Toni rushed onto her stoop, cheeks flushed with anger. “I think we’re over that twenty minutes I promised her,” Johnny murmured to Evan. “Don’t forget our promise.”

“I won’t tell her about the cop, Dad.”

After a high five, they got out of the car.

Arms crossed, Toni said, “You’re late!”

“We . . . got a little carried away.”

“Gram!” Grinning from ear to ear, Evan ran from the car and clasped her in a big hug. “He’s my dad!”

“You told him.”

Johnny nodded. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

Toni assessed Evan’s giant smile. “Yes,” she said. She hugged Evan back. “Yes.”

Kurt Miller parked his Crown Victoria in the garage. Once he’d stuffed the files into his briefcase, he left the car. Inside, he heard the treadmill motor running in the basement. “Honey?” he called.

“Down here!” she called, slightly breathless.

Kurt descended sluggishly. His mind had been rolling for the last half hour as he’d driven around, thinking. Brenda already knew for certain she couldn’t have kids. A uterine problem. In vitro was out. Neither felt surrogacy was an option, so his fertility had never been tested. They had accepted they could not have children. But now he knew: He could father a child. How would it make her feel? She’d already dealt, years before, with feeling “flawed.” Would this bring that pain back?

At the bottom of the steps, he stood and regarded her.

“What?” she asked and let loose a self-conscious giggle.

He said nothing.

“Kurt? Is it the case?” She powered down the treadmill and walked toward him. “Is everything okay?”

He wrapped her in his arms.

She laid her head on his chest. “Kurt. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

She didn’t argue, she just let him hold her.

This is who she is. Patient. Loving. I’ve been so selfish for so long, thinking I could never make a real fatherlike connection to some kid I didn’t know. It seemed an insurmountable mountain, but he’d seen two strangers conquer that slope in the back of his car today in a few minutes, under less than perfect circumstances. Sure, John was Evan’s biological father, but as any law enforcement officer saw daily, fathering a child didn’t make a man a parent.

He sucked down a breath. With his mouth lightly touching the top of her head, he whispered, “I want us to make an appointment with that adoption agency you found.”