“What do you mean by—” And then Hugo got it.
What’s a foot but not part of the body?
Afoot, not a foot.
As Sherlock Holmes once said, “The game is afoot.”
Jack Masterson was playing a game. Now. Out of nowhere. Had he lost his mind? Jack had barely left the house in years and now he was playing a game? With the world? With the entire bloody world?
Hugo swore so violently it was a good thing the cabdriver didn’t know who he was, or he’d never get another job in children’s publishing again.
He called Jack back.
“When I told you,” Hugo said, biting off the end of each word, “to start plotting again, I meant in your books.”
And there came that laugh again, the-devil’s-at-the-back-door-and-nobody-remembered-to-lock-it laugh.
“You know what they say, my boy…be careful what you wish for.”
Chapter Three
Lucy stood in front of her bathroom mirror, trying to make herself look responsible, adult, and mature. The pigtails had to go, that was for sure. She loved wearing her hair in pigtails because it made the kids at school laugh, especially when she tied big bows around them. But she’d taken a half day off from work for a meeting, and it was too important to show up looking like an overgrown Powerpuff Girl.
She straightened her hair and changed into clean and pressed khakis and a classy white blouse she’d found at Goodwill for a few dollars. Instead of a reject from an anime convention, now she wouldn’t look out of place at church or a business meeting.
Reluctantly, Lucy went into the living room. Chloe’s girlfriend called their living room The Pit of Despair, and it was a pretty accurate name for it. The ancient mismatched furniture was fine. She was no snob. But there were pizza boxes and vodka bottles everywhere. There were dirty socks on the floor and the gray Berber carpet was starting to take on a distinctly pale brown hue from her roommates’ refusal to take their shoes off in the house. There were only three spotlessly clean rooms in the entire three-story house—Lucy’s bedroom, Lucy’s bathroom, and the kitchen, which she cleaned because no one else would.
She hated the place and wanted to move, desperately, and not just for Christopher’s sake. But it was cheap, and it let her save money, so she stuck it out. It hadn’t been bad two years ago when all her roommates were college seniors and fairly tidy. But they’d graduated and freedom-drunk freshmen took their places.
Right now, Beckett, her youngest roommate, was lying on the beer-stained plaid sofa in the living room watching something on his phone. Knowing him, it was either porn or funny cat videos. The boy had range.
“Beck, buddy, you awake? You said you’d let me borrow your car.”
He slowly blinked himself back to awareness. “What?”
“Beckett. Wake up and focus,” she said and snapped her fingers.
He blinked. “Uh, L. What are you wearing? Are you, like, a nun now? You look way hotter with the pigtails.”
Lucy took a deep breath. Her roommates would test the patience of a Zen master.
“I’m not going to take fashion criticism from a man in a pot leaf shirt who hasn’t showered in six days.”
“Five. And overshowering is bad for your skin. It’s called self-care.”
“It’s also called hygiene,” Lucy said. “I suggest you try it sometime. Also, keys, please?”
“I’m tired. My head hurts.”
Lucy turned on her heel, went into the kitchen, and returned carrying a bottle from the fridge. “Try it. I dare you.”
He opened the bottle, took a sip. His eyes widened. “Oh my God, what is this?”
“It’s called…water.”
“Wow.”
“Feel better?”
“Amazing,” Beck said. “You’re so wise, like a sexy wizard.”
“Can the sexy wizard have your keys now?”
“Fine.” He dug his car keys out of his jeans pocket. Lucy took them with a smile.
“Thank you. Now please take a shower.”
* * *
—
Outside the glass double doors of the Children’s Service Center, Lucy rechecked her outfit, took a deep breath, and willed herself to be calm and in control. The woman she was meeting was Mrs. Costa, the social worker in charge of Christopher’s foster placement and care. There had to be something Lucy could do to speed up the process. The look on his face when he’d done the math and realized he’d be nine years old before they’d be together haunted her.
In the waiting room outside Mrs. Costa’s office, Lucy stared at her phone. She hated being here. It reminded her too much of a hospital waiting room—institutional tile, garish paint, brightly colored laminated signs—First Aid, Children’s Aid, Financial Aid. Financial aid for adoptive families and foster families, for kids with parents in prison, for kids with parents on drugs. But nothing for a broke twenty-six-year-old single woman trying to be one little boy’s mother.
The largest poster on the wall said in big black letters, You don’t have to be perfect to be a foster parent. Great. Fabulous news considering how not perfect she was.
Of course the family pictured on the poster looked happy, smiling, and absolutely perfect.
There were no picture-perfect families here in the waiting area. Women with crying babies. Women with screaming toddlers. Women—and a few men—sitting next to quiet, distant teenagers who had likely experienced the sort of horrors most people only read about in books and newspapers. Would Christopher be one of these traumatized teenagers someday? She felt like the window of opportunity to save him from that fate was closing fast.
On the table next to her were information packets and brochures. Lucy found one titled Foster Facts. The first fact said that the average time a child spends in foster care is twenty months, just shy of two years. Christopher was in his twentieth month already. Another foster fact, far more troubling—children in foster care are twice as likely as veterans to develop post-traumatic stress disorder.
“Lucy Hart?” Mrs. Costa stood in her office doorway. She smiled but not broadly. A polite smile. Lucy already felt like she was wasting the woman’s time.
Lucy went in and sat down in the chair opposite Mrs. Costa’s cluttered desk. Files teetered on the edge, ready to drop at any minute.
“So, Lucy,” Mrs. Costa said with obviously feigned enthusiasm. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to talk to you again about fostering to adopt Christopher. No relatives have come forward?”
Mrs. Costa looked at her. She was an older woman, sun-weathered face, gray-brown hair, eyes that had seen things no one should ever have to see.
“Obviously, family reunification is always the best-case scenario,” Mrs. Costa said, “but no, no family at all except a great-uncle in prison and another in a nursing home. So yes, he qualifies for foster-to-adopt. It would be a long process, but Lucy—”
“To Christopher, I’m his new mother in everything but paperwork.”
“I know he wants to live with you. I know you want to be his mother—”
Lucy didn’t let her finish. “Christopher’s getting older. He’s asking more questions. He can tell his foster mother isn’t crazy about dealing with him and the twin babies she’s also fostering.”