"Do you like me?" she asks suddenly, in the middle of his visit, not looking up from her paper, where she’s drawing sunshine and trees and dogs running around in fields of flowers.
He pauses, sets down his briefcase, smiles at her. “I like you very much,” he replies, gently.
"Do you like my dad?"
He doesn’t think about how it’s wonderful that she’s calling him her dad, finally. He doesn’t think about the repercussions that answering this question might cause. He doesn’t think about how he’s too close to this case, too close to her candid questions and big bright eyes and the feeling of her little hand slipping trustingly into his, too close to her father and the way he looks in an apron, making pancakes on Sunday morning and humming along to the radio.
"I like him very much."