Free Found and Lost by Amanda G. Stevens Page B

her lips. He flipped the water back on.
    â€œYou detest dirty dishes left in the sink.”
    â€œShe’ll never learn to do things for herself if we’re constantly—”
    â€œThat’s your biggest concern for her at this moment, that she learns to wash the dishes?”
    Natalia grabbed the blender jar’s handle, and it slid from Clay’s soapy grasp and smashed against the lip of the sink, fracturing the base away. Jagged pieces of glass dropped into the sink. Soap dripped onto the counter.
    â€œYou come home from dragging us there and making us criminals and then leaving your child to fend for herself, and the first thing you do is clean the kitchen.”
    Leaving your child. Clay’s wet hand curled around the counter’s edge. “That isn’t what I did, Nat.”
    She picked up a sudsy sliver of glass and tried to find where it fit.
    â€œYou can’t glue it back together.”
    She hurled the jar into the sink, and it shattered. “Fine.”
    â€œNatalia …”
    She crossed the kitchen, snatched up his keys, and offered them on an open palm. “Is this what you really want?”
    No. Of course not. Clay fought for a deep breath. He dried his hands on the pale-green towel. Behind him, the keys rang against each other as Natalia shoved them back onto the rack. Her steps retreated down the hall, and a door shut.
    Lord, I can’t do this. Clay stalked to the back door, then into the garage. He shut the door behind him.
    Crossing the garage left him breathing like a marathoner, smothering on the feelings that bubbled up as soon as he could be alone with them. He straddled the bike and gripped the handlebars.
    His brain resumed working for the first time since he’d heard the thump of his daughter throwing herself from the Jeep. The Constabulary had her ID, and they would come here to interview her parents. A year ago, they would have come at a decent hour, likely dinnertime, when they could be more sure of catching interviewees at home. These days, rumor said they enjoyed showing up at random times. Just because they could. They could knock on the door right now.
    They would question him. About his daughter. About their household beliefs.
    Or maybe they wouldn’t question at all. Maybe they’d simply inform him that his daughter was in their custody.
    Clay bent forward over the bike but couldn’t relieve the stomachache. “Lord, what are You doing?”
    Minutes streamed away. Somehow sitting astride the bike held a hollow comfort. He wouldn’t start it. He wouldn’t ride it off into the predawn. These days, he was a man who stayed, and Natalia knew that. She was scared, that’s all.
    When his gut eased and his brain settled, he trudged inside. Silence tried to push him into the garage again, but he shoved back.
    â€œNat.” He walked through the kitchen, the living room, the den, their bedroom. “Nat?”
    Only after he’d searched every other room in the house did he admit that he’d known her location the whole time. He pushed Khloe’s door open.
    Natalia lay stretched out on the bed, hands curled around Khloe’s sketchpad as it rested on her chest, staring at Khloe’s gallery on the far wall. Pencil sketches, mostly people. Mostly strangers. An elderly woman she’d watched in the park. Twin boys chasing each other through the mall playground. But Violet’s profile hung there too. And Clay’s favorite sketch of all, Natalia pulling cookies from the oven.
    She flinched as Clay stepped into view. Her head turned toward him. “You’re still here.”
    Clay pressed his back against the door trim. “I was in the garage.”
    â€œOh.” She pushed herself up, reached over the edge of the bed, and set the sketchpad on the carpet.
    â€œWe need a plan, Nat, for when they come tonight, or tomorrow. What to say, and … you know.”
    Stiffness infused her as he