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.

23

In the morning, I lay Chelsea gently down on the bed, then head into the kitchen. I put a pot of coffee on, let the dog out, and fill his bowl with food. It regards the bowl with sad eyes, then rejects it, curling up in a ball on the recliner with a heavy sigh. I pat his flat ears. “I know just how you feel, buddy.”

I bring a cup of coffee up to Chelsea, put it on the nightstand, and sit on the bed. When I lay my hand on her hip, her eyes flare open with a quick intake of breath, like she’s been yanked out of a bad dream. She looks around, and her face clouds over when she realizes the bad dream is reality. She lies back on the pillow, watching me.

“Thank you for last night. For staying with me.”

“Don’t mention it.” I push a strand of hair behind her ear. “I have to go into the office, to prepare for the hearing on Monday.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Her voice is weighed down. And the unnatural silence of the house closes in around us. “Can I come with you?”

“Of course you can.”

• • •

While Chelsea gets dressed I call Stanton and Sofia, then Brent. I fill them in on yesterday’s events and tell them to meet me at the office. The procedures in family court are slightly different, so I’ll have to familiarize myself with them, but essentially, the custody hearing isn’t so different from a trial. I’ll need evidence and a shitload of case law to back up my argument that the kids belong with Chelsea and that CFSA was way out of line to take them in the first place.

Chelsea comes into the room, sipping her coffee, wearing jeans and a loose red flannel shirt. Her hair shines red-gold in the sunlight from the window, pulled back in a high ponytail.

She looks . . . better, but not good.

The way a china plate that was broken into pieces looks better once it’s glued together. But you know the slightest vibration could shatter it all over again.

We stop for bagels on the way to my apartment, where I change my clothes, and then we head to the offices of Adams & Williamson. Working on Saturday is fairly common there, so there are a few attorneys milling about in casual weekend clothes. I lead Chelsea into my office, where Stanton, Sofia, and Brent are already waiting. After a round of sympathetic hugs for Chelsea and a few arm slaps for me, we sit around my desk.

“They fucking have everything.” I curse, flipping through the social services report that accompanied the court order. And on paper, it doesn’t look good. “Rory’s arrest and his broken arm, Riley getting detained after the party, the stuff with Raymond and Jeremy Sheridan. They even mention Rosaleen’s disappearing act. Did they bug the goddamn house?”

“Probably interviewed the neighbors,” Sofia suggests. “Parents of friends. Chelsea, the report mentions Regan’s speech delay, which CFSA claims you haven’t adequately addressed?”

Chelsea shakes her head. “She doesn’t have a speech delay—all the kids were late talkers. It freaked Rachel out at first, but the pediatrician always said it was totally normal.”

I point at Sofia. “We need to get a statement from the pediatrician. And Rory’s therapist. And their teachers—they’re smart kids, they do well in school; that’ll work in our favor.”

Stanton nods. “And I’ll dig around into Dexter Smeed and CFSA. See what their track record is lately.”

We break up to our respective tasks. Before Brent starts helping Sofia with those statements, he gets Chelsea settled comfortably on the leather couch by the window. He hands her a hot cup of tea, then he takes out his monogrammed flask and pours a shot’s worth into her cup. “A little nip in the morning is a good thing. Gets the blood going.”

“Thank you, Brent.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. They’ve awoken a sleeping giant. And Jake is the scariest giant around.”