Free Damaged by Lisa Scottoline Page B

through the door with Mary, who stepped into a waiting room that struck her immediately as an oasis for children. The room was large, with every square inch made for kids. The reception desk was on the left, painted on three sides with a mural of a fantastical garden, and on the right were green-padded chairs, with lots of smaller chairs for kids. Two little girls were watching a new flat-screen TV that hung on the wall, playing a Shrek DVD, a little boy and a girl were playing in a brown Little Tykes kitchen stocked with molded pork chops, fake fruits, and a pretend roasted chicken, and next to a kiddie-height table covered with construction paper, Magic Markers, and crayons.
    Patrick’s gaze went immediately to the art table, then he looked up at Edward. “Can I?”
    â€œNo,” Edward answered, and Mary kept her own counsel. She would have said yes, but she kept that to herself and crossed to the reception desk.
    â€œHow can I help you?” asked the receptionist, a young girl with a long ponytail.
    â€œI’m Mary DiNunzio, I called for a walk-in for Patrick?” Mary intentionally didn’t use his last name, which was standard practice in any case involving a minor.
    â€œPlease, sit down. That will just be a minute.”
    â€œThank you.” Mary went to the seating area and took a chair next to Edward, with Patrick on the other side.
    Mary sat down, getting her bearings. The waiting room was almost full, with men and women reading their phones in the chairs, amid a noise level predictable for children, and fortunately, the air-conditioning on full blast. Mary watched the little girls mesmerized by Shrek on DVD, then the little boy cutting the pretend pork chop with a toy knife, then slowly, it dawned on her that the happy scene wasn’t so happy, at all. This was the intake for all of the child abuse cases in the city, and that meant that all of these children had been abused and that these parents were here in their worst moments, just like Edward.
    Mary’s mouth went dry at the thought, and she kicked herself for not realizing it when she had first entered the waiting room. It was really too awful to contemplate, not only that anybody could harm an innocent child, but that there were so many of them, and they all looked so adorable at play, little girls in their flowery sundresses and pink sandals, with their hair in barrettes, and little boys in tank tops with skinny arms and crumbling wash-off tattoos.
    The children were of all ethnicities: white, black, Hispanic, and Asian, and the adults showed the same mix, though when Mary looked closer at their faces, she realized that they all shared the same expression, the controlled anger and unbearable strain of adults whose children had been abused—the same pursed lips, subtle frown, out-of-proportion concentration on a phone screen—masking the pain, anger, and hurt they must be feeling for their children.
    â€œMs. DiNunzio, Mr. O’Brien, and Patrick?” a young African-American woman called out, as she came through a door on the other side of the room, carrying a manila folder. She had a round, pretty face dominated by lively brown eyes and framed with dark, oiled curls. She smiled broadly when she spotted Mary, Edward, and Patrick, standing up.
    â€œHere, we are.” Mary brightened as she walked forward with Edward and Patrick.
    â€œI’m Cassandra Porter,” said the woman, shaking Mary’s hand, then Edward’s, and smiling down at Patrick. “Hi, Patrick, come on in.”
    â€œThanks,” Mary said, and they passed through the door into a large open space that led to a long hallway of closed doors, with a blue-patterned carpet. The walls were a soft creamy hue, clean and freshly painted, and appealing, large-scale cityscapes painted by children lined the walls on both sides. Yellow signs outside the doors read QUIET ZONE , SENSITIVE RECORDING IN PROGRESS .
    â€œWelcome,