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Yeah, we see some of that.”
    Her look, her tone, invited Jane to smile back. But the image of Aidan’s bloody lip, the defensive hunch of his shoulders, got in the way.
    Lauren’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask? Is Aidan having a problem at school?”
    Jane hesitated, her father’s voice rumbling in her head.
You’re making a mountain out of a molehill
.
Let him handle his own problems.
“Maybe . . . after school, I think? He came home from the playground with a split lip. My dad says all boys fight. But . . .”
    Don’t hit
, she’d told Aidan from the time he was very young.
We don’t hit in this family
.
    And tried to forget the time when that hadn’t been true, when Aidan’s father had hit her. Hurt her.
    I’m sorry
, Travis always said afterward. At least, he’d said it at the beginning.
God, I’m so sorry, Janey
.
    “What did he say?”
    Jane blinked.
Aidan
. They were talking about her son. “Nothing.”
    Not after supper and not at bedtime. When she went to kiss him goodnight, Aidan had turned his face to the wall covered in dinosaur posters, his shoulder rising like a gate to shut her out.
    “Have you talked to his teacher?” Lauren asked.
    Jane shook her head. “He’s never been in a fight before. It just happened yesterday. I don’t even know if it happened on school grounds. If it’s even school business. If they’d care. I don’t want to get him into trouble.”
    She winced at the familiar litany of rationalizations.
    The first time Travis gripped her arm, leaving a circlet of purple bruises like a tribal tattoo, she’d convinced herself—or had he convinced her?—that talking would only make things worse. The justifications rushed back, crowding her throat, choking her.
He’s never done it before, he didn’t mean it, if only he wasn’t frustrated, drunk, jealous, angry, disgusted with himself, with his life, with her
 . . .
    The excuses piled up and up, like a wall between everybody else and her secret, leaving her cowering behind it, alone with her pain and humiliation.
    “Would you like me to chat with his teacher? Sylvie Cunningham, right?” Lauren asked. “I could ask if she’s noticed anything in class.”
    The relief that rushed over Jane felt shameful. Aidan was her son, her responsibility. But she honestly didn’t know what to do. “Would you?” she asked hopefully.
    “Sure.”
    “You don’t mind getting involved?”
    Lauren’s lips quirked. “That’s why I became a counselor. Because I like meddling.”
    “Because you care,” Jane said. “Islanders are used to handling things themselves. But if you give them time to get to know you, they’ll come around.”
    “That’s what Jack says.” Lauren’s voice, her whole face, softened when she said her fiancé’s name.
    “Well, he would know,” Jane said, tucking a red velvet cupcake into the box. “He hasn’t been here that long himself. But everybody trusts him.”
    Lauren beamed. “They do, don’t they?”
    Jane nodded. “He’s a good police chief.”
    “He’s a good guy,” Lauren said.
    He was. It was hard not to feel a little jealous. Not over Jack, exactly. Though there was a time, right after he’d moved here, when Jane had thought . . .
    But beyond one kiss at a wedding two years ago, they had never . . . She would never . . .
    Anyway, she probably bored him silly.
    Besides, Jack was too dark, too cool, too controlled for her liking. She was drawn to sulky rebels with bad-boy stubble and sun-streaked shaggy hair and muscles like rope.
    An image of Gabe Murphy slid into her mind, tall and blond with eyes that weren’t green or brown or gold but some intriguing combination of all three.
    No, she told herself firmly, and shut the bakery box. “I think you two are good together,” she said.
    “Thanks. So.” Lauren gave her a bright look and swiped a cookie sample from the plate by the register. “How’s your love life these days?”
    Jane smiled faintly. “Is this