To talk about all the deals the devil wants to make.
We sit on the leather couches in Jonas’s office, enjoying an afternoon scotch. Holten talks about a good “friend” of his who’s being investigated for money laundering. His eyes are dark, bottomless, almost soulless. And it’s kind of creeping me out.
As the senator drones on, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at it discreetly—Chelsea’s name glows on the screen. I send the call to voice mail. But a few minutes later, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up when her silent call comes again.
My thumb hovers for a second . . . and then I send it to voice mail again. This may very well be the biggest meeting of my career—hearing about how many feet Ronan crawled today is just going to have to wait.
We finish our drinks, and the talk turns to my recent cases—my latest acquittal. And then Veronica, Mr. Adams’s private secretary, walks into the office, her voice hesitant at interrupting us. “Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen.” She looks at me. “Mrs. Higgens is on line one, with an urgent call for you, Mr. Becker.”
My first thought is of the kids, that Rory has gotten himself into some fresh brew of trouble or that one of them, maybe Regan—she’s due—has had an accident. Something minor, of course, a broken bone or a cut that needs stitching.
But I cover the concern with a shrug, eyeing Holten and my boss. “My apologies. The cost of being in high demand.”
Mr. Adams nods his head. “Use my phone, Becker.”
I stand beside his desk as their chatter resumes and press the button under the blinking, waiting light. There’s a click over the line, a pause as it connects . . . and then Chelsea’s voice.
“Jake?”
I hear a lot in that one syllable. Her voice is . . . off. Somehow flat and high-pitched at the same time. And she’s exhaling hard, like when you twist an ankle or slice your hand . . . and have to breathe through the pain.
“What’s wrong?”
“Janet’s here. With . . . officers. They have an . . . an order . . .”
And the floor drops out from under me.
“They’re taking the kids, Jake.”
Nausea slams into my stomach and I feel like I’m falling. Grappling, grasping for a perch to stop the descent.
I swallow bile. “I’m leaving right now. Tell them . . .” I choke down a curse. “Tell them I’m on my way.”
“Hurry,” she begs in a whisper. And the line goes dead.
I replace the phone on the cradle. It takes every ounce of control I have not to sprint out of the fucking room or break my way straight through the wall.
“I’m sorry, I have to leave.” My briefcase is in hand and I’m already walking to the door as my boss calls, “Becker, Senator Holten is only available for this afternoon.”
Gripping the doorknob, I make myself turn and answer. “Again, I’m very sorry we couldn’t speak longer, Senator. But”—I don’t even have to think about my next words—“it’s a family emergency.”
22
I burst through the door, wild and seething, struggling to pull my shit together. Because emotions make you sloppy, careless. And I really need to be on point.
The foyer is empty—I stalk into the living room. There, the first thing I see is Riley, a packed blue canvas duffel bag at her feet, rubbing her little sister’s trembling back as she buries her face against Riley’s stomach. The fourteen-year-old looks up at me, her eyes filled with tears being kept at bay.
“It’s okay.” She nods, trying so damn hard to be brave. “I’m okay.”
I notice a uniformed police officer in the corner—he looks young, just out of the academy. I wonder if when he signed up he imagined protecting and serving would include sweeping scared kids out of their home. He picks up a framed photograph from a coffee table in the corner.
“Don’t touch that,” I bite out.
He replaces the frame and raises his hands in surrender. I brush past him to Chelsea, with Regan beside her, oblivious to the turmoil, and Ronan in the baby carrier at her feet, taking it all in. Chelsea’s eyes are wide and terrified, her hands twisting together. She sighs with relief when she sees me.
“What the hell is this, Janet?” I bark at the social worker standing beside her.
Janet shakes her head. “It wasn’t my call. This came down from the top.”
“Who’s at the top?” Whose head do I need to cleave in two?
“The director of CFSA reviewed the case file and petitioned to have the children removed from the home. Dexter Smeed.”
I take the court order from Chelsea’s hands. “ ‘Neglect and child endangerment ’?” I read. “Is this a fucking joke?”
Janet rubs her lips together, looking anything but happy. “I’m really sorry.”
I look over the paper again, checking the date, the wording, the signatures. Looking for something. Fucking anything.
“You can do something, right?” Chelsea asks, begging me with her eyes. “A response, a postponement? So they can stay?”
There’s hope in her voice. Faith. So much trust. And it destroys me.
I grasp her elbow and swear on my soul. “We’ll get them back. I promise, Chelsea . . . we’ll get them back.”
She stares at me for a moment, unblinking. Like she can’t comprehend what I’m telling her. Until she does. Her eyes pinch closed and she inhales harshly through her nose. Then she opens her eyes, and I see a wall being erected within them. Brick by brick, she shores it up—so she can take the hit. So she can be strong for the kids, until . . . after.