Page 57 of Toxic Temptation
If Luka starts talking about masked gunmen a few weeks ago, our little game of pretend is D.O.A.
“Yeah, when I was seven,” Luka says easily.
Jeez, the kid can lie like a rug. I really need to up my game if I’m going to keep up with these two.
Trunchbull frowns. “And for what reason were you and your uncle at the hospital?”
“I broke my arm.”
Ms. Murphy glances towards Kovan. “Luka was in your custody at the time?”
“He was in his mother’s house. His stepfather pushed him down the staircase.”
Ms. Murphy’s face doesn’t change. She turns her impassive stare on Luka. “Is that true, Luka? Your stepfather pushed you?”
“Yes,” he mumbles, looking down.
“Why did he do that?”
“I don’t remember. Sometimes, Ihor gets really mad. He yells. And if I’m in his way…” He trails off with a shrug that screams,Please, no more questions.
I can’t help myself. I move to his side, my hand settling protectively on his shoulder.
Ms. Murphy watches the gesture with sharp interest. “Luka, before I arrived, did your uncle tell you what to say to me?”
The question comes out of nowhere, designed to blindside him, to expose him for a little liar, a puppet of his uncle. Luka’s eyes widen, darting toward Kovan before he catches himself.
“N-no,” he insists, but his cheeks flush red.
Trunchbull is like a dog with a bone, practically salivating at the hint of a lie. “You don’t sound certain anymore.”
“I-I-I am.” A stutter is peeking through the cracks in his voice.
“So your uncle hasn’t coached you? What to say to me? What not to say to me?”
Luka shrinks into himself, his head dropping toward his lap. “N-no. No, he didn’t.” But he refuses to lift his eyes now.
She stoops to his level. “Luka, you know it’s wrong to lie to a social worker, don’t you?”
“I’m not lying!” The cry bursts out of him, desperate and frightened.
“Enough.” Kovan’s voice slices through the room. “You’re scaring him.”
Trunchbull purses her lips. “I’m trying to determine what’s best for this child. That requires difficult questions.”
Kovan steps closer to her, his size suddenly threatening. “There’s a difference between difficult questions and bullying an eight-year-old.”
“Stop!” Luka cries, tears gleaming fresh on his face. He wriggles out from beneath my touch and bolts from the room before I can stop him.
Ms. Murphy watches him go, then turns back to Kovan. “Do you always handle conflict by intimidation? Is this how you deal with Luka when he misbehaves?”
This is spiraling out of control. I move to Kovan’s side, my hand sliding up his arm. His muscles are rigid with fury he must be dying to unleash on this skeletal woman.
“Ms. Murphy,” I say, my voice calm and professional, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Kovan is protective of Luka because that child has been through hell. If you knew what he’s endured?—”
“Everyone wants what’s best for him,” she interrupts.
“Then may I suggest you don’t hurt him further in the process of helping him.” I keep my voice steady, drawing on every ounce of my medical training. “When I first met Luka, he was severely traumatized. He blamed himself for getting pushed down the stairs. And if that was the only time he’d been hospitalized, it would be a different thing. But it’s not. The last time Kovan brought him to St. Raphael’s, Luka nearly died. Allergic reaction to pineapple. Which his mother is aware of?—”
