Page 66 of Harley

“Archer, use your manners and say thank you,” I chided.

“Why? They might be the wrong things.”

“Archer, what’ve we told you?” I asked.

“Thanks, Miss Phoe,” Archer muttered, not meeting Phoe’s eyes.

“Check in the bag, see if you like them,” Phoe urged. “Aspen, do you want a bath?”

“Bath? It’s been three years since I had one. I’d love to,” Aspen replied. “But I think I might need help.”

“Oakley and I can do that. Get out of here,” Phoe chased Harley, Drake, and Doc Gibbons out.

“Will Archer be okay alone?” Phoe asked.

“I’m not sure. One of us used to watch him,” I replied.

“Archer will be fine. Tell him to stay in the room, keep the bathroom door open, and check every few minutes. Archer is on the low end of the spectrum, and he’s not stupid,” Aspen said defensively.

“Hey, it’s me. Aspen, I know he’s not. Archer’s highly intelligent,” I responded, shocked.

“Sorry, that place kept calling him names. Archer’s anything but,” Aspen defended herself.

“Come on, Aspen, bath, food, and bed,” Phoe urged, and Aspen nodded.

I was horrified when I helped Aspen undress. Her hip bones stuck out, and she looked like she’d been starved. Aspen was far too thin and admitted, as we got her into the bath, that they’d often deprived her of food to control her. And the portions were so small Aspen saved food for Archer.

Hate and anger welled in my gut. My parents and Reverend Jeffrey would pay.

After I washed Aspen’s roughly shorn hair no less than five times—her demand because she didn’t feel clean—I helped her into a large tee belonging to Harley. The blasted thing swamped her. Archer had opened his gifts, and I guessed he was content because he sat happily playing with them.

Harley had clearly listened when I described some of Archer’s toys. There had been a big red bus, a yellow matchbox jaguar, an electronic story book with several stories and a digital sudoku game. Phoe had replaced all of them, even getting the brandnames correct. Hell, Phoe had got the same stories. And then she’d bought some extra ones and a child’s tablet.

“How old is Archer?” Phoe questioned.

“Eight. His birthday is in November,” Aspen replied.

“Obviously, Archer needs clothes and stuff. How do we manage that?” Phoe asked.

“As much as Archer hates crowds, he will visit a mall for clothing and toys. Oaks and I found it best to let Archer choose his clothes, and he’ll tell you what day he wants to wear them. So, we’d get him four Monday outfits, four Tuesday and so on. Same with underwear and pyjamas and shoes,” Aspen replied.

“As for toys, we let him pick. Archer knows what he likes and what he doesn’t. Christmas is hard, but we managed,” I explained.

“Pointless sending the club out to buy gifts?” Phoe inquired.

“Yes. More likely, most would go to waste.”

“It is time for a snack,” Archer interrupted. “As it’s Monday, we have hot cross buns.”

“Archer, Miss Phoe probably does not have them. We haven’t been shopping for your food yet,” I responded.

“But it’s Monday, three-thirty p.m., and you said we were going to return to my old routine,” Archer snapped, and his bottom lip poked out. That signalled an impending meltdown.

“Actually, Mrs Ames was baking some. Harley asked Archer on the plane what he wanted to eat for the rest of today and called it through. We also have Tuesday’s food,” Phoe added. She picked up a housephone and dialled someone.

“Drake, grab the tray from Mrs Ames, please, and send Doc Gibbons up,” Phoe said and hung up.

Aspen looked lost in the huge king-size bed that swamped her tiny frame. She was worn out just by having a bath.

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