It was Kelly who reached in and took the cloth away. He dropped the washcloth back into the water with a pained cry, and Owen stared as red slowly leached out of the cloth. How the fuck am I supposed to do this? “Shiloh.” She looked up at him, the lost expression gone, replaced by an anguished awareness he found to be far worse. “I’ve got a doctor coming, honey. A man I trust. He’s going to make sure you’re okay.” The incredulity she felt was clear on her face, and Owen understood the wariness. Honesty will gain me allies. “He can’t make it okay. What happened to you, to both of you.” He put his hand on Kelly’s head. “That can’t ever be made okay. But he’ll make sure that you are going to heal and be well.”
“Mm’kay.” Soft and toneless, her voice stripped his composure away, and Owen’s own tears threatened as her expression began to shut down again.
“Okay,” he echoed and then held up the towel he had in his hands. “Let’s get you out of the wet and dried off. Kelly, I could use some help, bud.”
Kelly flipped the lever to unstop the tub again and climbed to his feet, holding Shiloh’s hands as she did the same. Kelly lifted the hem of the shirt, and as it cleared her torso, Owen folded the towel around her, so by the time the shirt hit the floor of the bathroom, she was still covered shoulders to knees.
He lifted her, shocked when her arms went around his neck, head nestling against his shoulder. As he carried her into the bedroom Kelly had been using, he heard a warning ding from the security system announcing the front door had been opened. So it wasn’t a surprise when the man he’d messaged showed up in the doorway, his features matching the pictures Owen had paid for.
Following post-residency fellowship studies at a prestigious Boston hospital, Darren Marchant’s career path had taken a different direction than expected after he visited a charity hospital in Thailand, only a few years into his practice as a rising star in childhood trauma treatment. According to the information Owen had found about the man, what he’d seen there had changed his life. In that tropical country, the prostitution trade brutalizing children as young as two years old was rampant. Marchant had thrown himself into treating children who were brought to the hospital, but after realizing the worst cases never made it that far, he moved his work out into the community. Seeking justice for the children, he’d battered himself against the government’s unflinching walls and barriers, until after only two years he had burned out. The torture of uncovering evidence time and again that Westerners were so often the ones taking advantage of the children, exploiting legal loopholes that allowed them to pursue their abnormal proclivities without fear of legal reprisal, had become too much for his continued sanity. So Marchant had resorted to different tactics.
When the Thai government had censured him a second time for publicizing a US-based businessman’s activities, Marchant had found himself socially and professionally ostracized, unable to secure the necessary support to continue his work. That cold-shoulder treatment had followed him back stateside, where he’d had difficulty finding a job in his chosen field. The need was there, but the appetite for a doctor unafraid to call the perpetrators out on their behaviors, regardless of their clout or power—simply not present. Marchant wasn’t a good bet anymore and had finally given up on the idea, instead creating his own clinic system, housed in the worst neighborhoods. His professed goal was that any child who needed a protector would find one.
Once in the room, Marchant didn’t even look at Owen beyond clearly cataloging his presence. The man’s entire focus was on the towel-clad Shiloh, and the tender smile that creased his lips didn’t appear forced. He seemed genuinely pleased to see the girl.
“Hey.” He came only slightly closer, crouching down, settling back on one heel. “I’m Darren. I’m a doc. I treat kiddos like you.” He waved, the movement slow and fluid, clearly designed to not startle the child. “You must be Shiloh, right?”
Shiloh’s arms tightened around Owen’s neck, and he turned to sit on the edge of the bed. Marchant’s gaze flicked to him, and the man patted the floor unobtrusively. Okay then. Owen slipped off the bed and settled on the floor, his back supported by the side of the mattress and bed frame. Kelly sat next to him, crowding close.
Marchant didn’t let Shiloh’s lack of a response bother him, turning his attention to the boy next. “And I bet you’re Kelly. Pleased to meet you.” The man stuck out a hand, and Kelly turned his face into Owen, hiding as if the attempted contact was a threat. “No worries, no worries. I’m just here to see if I can help. I can’t help if you don’t trust me, and you don’t trust me yet. I know, I know.”
Kelly unfolded slightly, head turned to stare at the stranger. “Are you really a doctor?”
Marchant nodded. “I sure am. I’m a children’s doctor, specifically.”
“Where’s your white coat, then?” Disbelief was thick in Kelly’s voice, his words clipped after every consonant. “If you’re a doctor, shouldn’t you have a white coat?”
“I left it at home. Owen here”—Marchant gestured towards Owen—“said things were urgent, so I came straight over. I have a picture of me in the coat, though, and a badge from a hospital that says I’m a doctor. Would you like to see?”
He was impressed by the way Marchant had immediately understood how best to work with Kelly, not talking down to him as if he were a child, but instead treating him as a near equal. He suspected Shiloh would trust once Kelly did, which made Marchant’s approach doubly smart.
Kelly’s head shifted up and down, and Marchant straightened, reaching into his front pocket. Owen tensed, suddenly conscious that he was supremely vulnerable in this position. His focus had been so entirely on the children, all normal self-protective awareness had fallen by the wayside. The man was in shape, body toned from running or a similar exercise if the fit of his jacket was to be believed. Marchant held no publicly recorded certifications in any self-defense skills, didn’t own a gun, and as far as Owen had been able to determine, had never visited a shooting range. He wasn’t military with whatever elite training that implied, and sitting across from Owen as he was now, Marchant simply didn’t read as a threat. Nothing but a dude. A guy dude. Not a mark. Owen shouldn’t have to defend the kids against this man but couldn’t help his gut reaction at the realization of how vulnerable they all were.
Marchant must have seen the change because he stilled, hand imprisoned within his pocket. “Just getting my wallet. Okay? Gonna bring it out and show Kelly the pictures.” Owen nodded, and the man slowly withdrew his hand, square of leather trapped between his fingers. “It’s an ID and a couple of pictures.” Gaze locked with Owen, he flipped open the wallet and thumbed out a square ID card along with his driver’s license. He offered them, and Owen took them, surprised at the steadiness of his hand. With the adrenaline rush still in his system, he’d expected shaking. He held them while the man dug deeper, coming up with a couple of candid photos of him and groups of kids that he also passed over. Owen had seen these images online. They were of the children Marchant had worked with in Thailand, him crouched in front of the mass of petite bodies, one child balanced on his knee and one perched on his shoulders. Owen brought the items closer to his body so Kelly could see. The boy reached out and touched one of the pictures, his finger drawing a line under where Marchant was shown kneeling.