I’m so sick of him too. He’s just a big old dumb idiot who thinks he’s smart because he was good in football during high school and everyone worshipped him. He can’t see anything. Not even the things that are right underneath his nose.
There’s no way he’s keeping us safe. That much is for sure.
I tried calling the man on the card back. That’s the only way this ends, and I need this to end. I can’t go on like this. But the number has been disconnected or no longer exists. I wish there were a way to make him no longer exist. I wasn’t kidding when I said it.
I need to get out of here. The walls of the living room breathe. It’s like they’re coming to swallow me whole. Everywhere I turn, there’s another picture of what used to be my life. The tears bubble up my throat. John. My sweet John. Our sweet, beautiful life.
That terrible man has heaved all the memories to the surface. He doesn’t know how hard I work to keep them shoved down. Because if I don’t? Then all I do is miss the loving way John used to kiss me every day before he walked out the door for work and every evening when he got home at six. How he used to make me sit on the couch when I was spinning my tail off over something stupid, and he’d rub my feet until I calmed down. He was so good at getting the knot that settles in my arch, where I carry all my stress. How he smelled when he’d come in from playing tennis outside. I just—
I slap my thighs to stop the memories.
“No, Genevieve. Just no.”
I picked myself up from that emotional heap six years ago, when I didn’t think I’d be able to stumble out of that shock, and I barely made it. I’m not falling down again. I can’t.
I know what I have to do. It won’t be easy. It never is, but this has to end, and we’re ending it on my terms.
THIRTY
CASEY WALKER
It feels so wrong to be here. I’ve never seen a child without the consent of one of the parents. Detective Layne assured me it was fine since I’m a consultant on the case and it’s part of the investigation, but I emailed one of my old professors from graduate school just to make sure. I wasn’t about to accidentally break any laws.
The young woman who answered the door seemed nice enough, but I don’t trust foster homes, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been inside one. When you start graduate school, everyone thinks of the world so differently. You have this idealistic view that there’s this beautiful system put in place by the government and, ultimately, the universe that’s designed to keep kids safe and bring people to justice. It only took a few months in actual practice for my entire perception and worldview to shift. Not just on foster care; it made me question everything. Seeing humanity at its worst has that effect on people, and you never know how you’ll respond to a child who’s been kept in a cupboard and fed dog food until you meet your first one. Lots of people change programs or majors because they can’t make the shift.
I shove my past experiences aside and try to focus as a young man heads down the hallway in long strides. He’s younger than the woman who opened the door—tall and lean with a short fade and dark-brown eyes framed in thick lashes. He sticks his hand out. “I’m Sam, and you must be Ms. Walker?”
His voice is high pitched and sweet. He might not even be old enough to buy alcohol. I throw my bag over my other shoulder and slip my hand into his for a firm shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too, and if you have any questions while you’re here, please just come tap on my office”—he points to the door practically next to us in the entryway and giggles—“right here, and I’ll be more than happy to help you.” He lets out another giggle before going on. “We have one staff member and two aides on at all times.” He steps down into the dining area split from the living room by a half wall and a kitchen on the other side, which he points to next. “Oh, and a cook, but she’s only part time for meals. Girl”—he grabs my arm—“she is the best. I swear if I could afford it, I’d bring her home with me to cook all my meals. She cooks better than my mama, but don’t tell her that.” He brings his finger up to his lips.
I smile, releasing some of the nervous tension. So far, the place doesn’t look too bad. The furniture is all mismatched and secondhand, and the floors are covered in outdated beige carpet, but it’s clean and orderly. No funny smells. I used to try to figure out a hidden system for how they determine which kids go into good homes and which go into bad ones, but there isn’t one. It’s completely luck of the draw where you end up.
“Would you like a grand tour?” Sam asks.
“No, thanks. I think I’d rather just get to visiting with Mason.”
“Of course,” he says, nodding. He points to the hallway leading off the family room. “Go through that doorway, and Mason is the second door on your right.”
“Thanks so much,” I say before I head through the house. I walk slowly, taking it all in, my eyes sweeping each room. Nobody’s around, which seems a bit odd for a house filled with twelve kids. According to their website, there are three bedrooms on each floor. Two kids in each room, just like a college dorm. The foster mother, Blanche, described it almost perfectly when we spoke yesterday.
“We function more like a group home than a foster home,” she explained over the phone when I called to schedule my visit.
I took the opportunity to ask her about Mason while I had her on the phone, since I didn’t know if she’d be here today, and it’s a good thing I did, because she’s not.
“What’s he been like since he arrived?” I asked, testing the waters. I learned the hard way that people don’t like when you come into their homes and immediately start asking deep, personal questions. You’ve got to work up to that.
“Honestly, he was a pleasant surprise. I’ve been the house mother for over twenty years, so I’ve had hundreds of kids come through, and I don’t have a fancy degree hanging on any of my walls or anything like that, but I’ve got plenty of experience. So when I saw his file and everything he’s got on his plate, I expected to have a really big mess of a kid on my hands, but it hasn’t been that way at all.”
“Really?” Someone with Mason’s diagnoses and level of impairment would likely shut down from the trauma and constant stimulation of these past few days or become a complete wreck. It’s notable that he didn’t.
“Yes, it’s been the strangest thing. Like I said, though. A pleasant surprise. He’s very quiet and keeps to himself. He likes to be in his room the most. Most of the kids do, quite honestly, which is why we try to keep their days filled with structured activities so they don’t just hide out in there.”
“How has he done with all that?” Blanche had forwarded me their weekly schedule and rules when I’d emailed her to arrange our chat. Their program is filled with impressive blocks of activities ranging from art classes to outdoor fitness time.
“He doesn’t have a choice around here, since we expect all our kids to attend scheduled events unless they’re ill or there’s some other type of emergency. One of the girls in the house has taken a particular interest in him, and she’s taken him under her wing. She bosses him around and tells him what to do, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s started looking for her whenever he comes out of his room and follows her around on his own even when she’s not trying to give him orders.”