Sustained
: Chapter 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.

Chelsea nods and forces a wet-eyed smile. Then she scoops up Regan and moves to Riley and Rosaleen, stroking their hair, telling them they’ll be staying with friends of Janet’s for just a little while. How wonderful it’ll be. How much fun they’ll have.

I pray they can’t hear the tremble in her voice.

“Where are you taking them?” I ask Janet.

I read an article to the Judge last month about the crowded group homes, the shortage of adequate foster families in DC. And I envision three cars, each with two of them inside, driving away in different directions. Tearing them apart.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Then tell me they can stay together, Janet,” I growl. But my voice is so strained, it sounds more like pleading.

She takes pity on me. “There’s a family I’ve worked with before. They’re good people. The real deal. They’ve agreed to take all six of the kids . . . for the weekend.”

I look up sharply. “The weekend? That’s it?”

Janet faces my heated expression head-on. “After that, it’ll depend on what’s available.” Her voice falls back to professionalism. “Everything’s in the packet—Chelsea’s rights, her options. She can request an emergency hearing.”

“God fucking damn it.”

Footfalls clunk down the steps. Raymond appears first at the bottom, wearing a stoic mask, but his red-rimmed eyes and sniffling give him away. He lets the bag in his hand go and rushes over to Chelsea, where he’s immediately enveloped in her arms.

I try to think of something to say. Words that could make this less of a nightmare for them. Before I can say the first word, Rory comes down the stairs, his blue eyes round and shaken. I expect him to join his brothers and sisters in their close-knit cluster. To run to Chelsea. But he doesn’t.

He runs to me.

His warm little body crashes against me, arms wrapping, holding on for dear life. His voice is muffled against my waist, but I hear every word. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll be good. I swear I’ll be good.”

My eyes sting as this poor, lost kid pours out his heart . . . and tears mine to pieces.

I slide to my knees in front of him and pry him back. “This isn’t your fault, Rory. Nothing you did made this happen.”

“But—”

“It’s not your fault, kid.”

He hiccups. “Don’t let . . . them take . . . us.”

My voice is low and irrefutable. “I’ll bring you home. I’ll bring you all home.”

His eyes flicker between mine, searching for honesty. “When?”

And I curse the time of day and the court schedule and a thousand other things that force my answer. “Monday. I’ll bring you home Monday.” I push his hair back and brush his tear-streaked face. “Do you remember what I told you, about a man and his word?”

He nods. “All a man has is his word. That he says what he means and does what he says.”

An aching smile tugs at my lips. “That’s right. I give you my word, Rory. I’ll bring you all home on Monday.”

I glance up at Chelsea and at each of the kids around her—all of them watching, listening. Then I look back to Rory. “But between then and now, you’ve got to hold it together. I need you to be tough, okay? Take care of each other. Don’t fight. Help each other.”

After a slow moment, Rory clenches his jaw. Then he gives a small nod and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. He’s ready.

• • •

We load the kids into the van. Chelsea hugs and kisses each one before they climb in, barely able to make herself let go. Rosaleen’s face is red and wet with big, streaming tears. “I want to stay here.”

“I know, kiddo.” I brush her cheek with my knuckles, wiping at her tears as I buckle her in. “It won’t be long. It’ll go really fast,” I lie.

Regan’s lip quivers, though I’m not sure she understands why. “No . . . ”

And I can’t force out any words to answer her. All I can do is kiss her forehead.

We step back as Janet closes the sliding van door. It’s loud—echoing—like a jail cell locking. Then she climbs in the driver’s seat.

Chelsea waves, and she keeps talking, even after the kids can’t hear her anymore. “I love you! Be good, guys. I’ll see you really soon. Everything’s gonna be all right. Don’t worry. I prom—” Her voice falters. “Promise everything will be all right.”

Her hand is still raised as the van pulls away, led by a police cruiser, down the curved driveway, through the gate, and out of sight.

As soon as the blue van disappears, Chelsea’s face crumbles. A wheezing gasp comes from her throat and she hides her face in her open palms. I put my hands on her shoulders so she’s knows I’m right here with her.

And she screams. A horrible, piercing wail that I’ll never forget as long as I live. Pain so bare, so raw, that thoughts aren’t even possible—just an endless flow of agonized sobs.

Her knees give out, and I catch her.

She twists my shirt in her hands and hides her face against my chest, soaking it with tears by the time we get into the house. Her shoulders shake as she cries her heart out. “They were scared, Jake. Oh god, they were so scared.”

It’s horrible. Every word lands like the lash of a whip, cutting me, turning my insides into a raw, bloody mess. I take her straight to her room. The kids are everywhere in this house—their toys, their faces smiling back from pictures on the wall—but there it won’t be as haunting. I sit on the bed and cradle Chelsea in my arms. Stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, whispering words of reassurance that have no fucking meaning at all.

She sobs, long and loud. And I know this isn’t just about the kids—it’s the outpouring of everything that’s built up inside her these last months. All the grief, pain, loneliness, and fear she never let herself feel.

“My brother was a good brother,” she chokes out.

“I know.”

“I loved him.”

“I know you did,” I answer in the softest voice.

“And he’s gone. And I miss him . . . so much.”

I hold her tighter. “I know.”

Her voice scrapes her throat. “I had to do one thing, just one thing for him . . . and I couldn’t! I lost them . . .”

“Shh . . . it’s okay.” I press my lips to her forehead.

“They’re gone. Oh god . . . they’re gone . . .”

“We’ll get them back. Shhh . . . I promise.”

Eventually Chelsea wears herself out, crying herself into a deep sleep. I stay awake all night and hold her. I whisper to her when she whimpers, when her brow wrinkles with panic, until she’s calm again. And I think about the kids, each one of them—I picture them in my mind. The sound of their voices, their little hands, the way they smell when they come in from outside—like dirt and sunshine and goodness. I try to tell myself they’ll be safer somehow—shielded—if I just keep thinking about them.

But imagination can be a fucked-up thing. I think of all the horrors that I’ve seen, read about, heard about from clients and colleagues. I wonder if the kids are calling for Chelsea, or maybe their parents. If they’re hiding under blankets or crying into pillows because they’re surrounded by strangers and they have no idea what tomorrow has in store.

It’s the longest night of my life.