“Hi, Irene,” Billy Jo said. “I’m Billy Jo McCabe. My husband is Chief Mark Friessen.” She rested her hand on her baby, a protective instinct that had come from nowhere one day.
The woman staring up at her, who had been just a name in a file, had a spooked look. Her brown coat, faux fur, was fraying at the wrists, and she held her little girl tightly in her arms. Mila was resting her head against her mother’s chest.
“He said he would be right back,” Irene said, “though I’m not sure I believe him. So why’d he send you in? I’m not letting you take her again.” She was looking right at Lisa now.
Billy Jo shot her a sharp glance when she heard her pull in a breath, about to say something, and quickly said, “No one is taking anyone right now,” as much to Lisa as to Irene, who had flinched back
