And when she spasms around me with a tender whimper, when I pulse deep inside her with a rough groan, it feels like more. Like everything. Like nothing I’ve ever had before and something I can’t fathom reaching with anyone else.

Chelsea’s head still rests on my shoulder long after the water turns cold. Eventually, we climb out of the tub, dry each other off, and fall asleep in her bed wrapped around each other.

24

Ten a.m. the next morning, Chelsea and I walk into courtroom 7-A in the Family Court of the District of Columbia. We take our place at our designated table; Stanton, Sofia, and Brent sit in the front row behind us. Chelsea is nervous but composed. And me? I’m ready and I’m hungry for a win. It’s the feeling I always get. No nerves—just eagerness.

The attorney representing the Children and Family Services Agency takes her own place at the table across the main aisle to my left, smoothing down the skirt of her conservative, well-tailored black suit. She’s a redhead in her forties who looks almost as confident as I feel.

The bailiff announces that court is in session and we all rise as the judge—a gray-haired, spectacle-wearing woman who, if the lace around her collar is any indication, is a fan of Ruth Bader Ginsburg—enters the room. She goes through the formalities—who’s representing who—then she asks me to begin.

“I call the director of CFSA, Dexter Smeed, Your Honor.”

Dexter Smeed looks exactly like you’d picture someone named Dexter Smeed to look. Round glasses; thinning hair; pressed, starched white button-down shirt; brown tweed jacket; and light green bowtie. He’s sworn in and takes a seat in the witness box.

“Mr. Smeed, have you ever seen Chelsea McQuaid before today?”

“No.”

“Ever met her, visited her home?”

“No.”

“Sent her an email?”

Smeed clears his throat. “No.”

I nod, taking it in. “Have you ever interviewed any of the McQuaid children?”

“No.”

I step out from behind the table and lean back against it. “And yet you felt qualified to override the recommendation of the social worker on the case, Janet Morrison—who has seen, visited, and interviewed Miss McQuaid and the children—to order the removal of custody?”

“I did, yes.”

“And how did you make that determination, Mr. Smeed?”

“I periodically review the files of all the case workers in my agency. The file contained all the information I needed. It’s my job to be critical. To determine who is a fit guardian”—his eyes scan to Chelsea and pause meaningfully—“and who is not.”

Toast. This fucker is toast—the burned kind that not even the dog will touch.

I move to the right, blocking Chelsea from his view. “Your wife is a lucky woman.” I shake my head. “You have got some set of balls—”

“Your Honor!” The agency attorney jumps to her feet.

The judge lowers her chin, glaring down. “That comment will cost you five hundred dollars, Mr. Becker. You will maintain proper decorum in my courtroom or your client will be looking for new representation. There won’t be another warning—do I make myself clear?”

Most judges are really low on sense of humor.

“Crystal clear. My apologies.”

Then I set my sights back on Mr. Smeed. “Let’s come back to that later. At the moment, can you tell me if the name Carrie Morgan is familiar to you?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

I pick up a file from the table and glance at its contents. “Three years ago, Carrie, age seven, was taken into the custody of Children and Family Services after her mother was convicted on federal drug charges. She was placed with a foster family, under the supervision of your agency. Six months later, she was dead, from blunt-force trauma to the head. The autopsy found signs consistent with abuse.” I pin him with a stare, my eyes as cold as my voice. “Ring any bells?”

“I’m not familiar with the particulars of that case, no.”

“Hmm. Okay.” I grab another file from the table. “How about Michael Tillings, age fourteen? Are you familiar with his case?”

Smeed shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, I am.”

“Good. Please tell the court, Mr. Smeed, what happened to Michael Tillings.”

“He passed away.”

He’s hedging, digging his heels into the dirt as he’s propelled closer to a cliff he doesn’t want anywhere near. And I’m just the guy to push him over.

“Passed away? That’s a very delicate way of putting it. He was murdered, isn’t that correct? While in a group home, run by CFSA—he was beaten by several other boys at the facility?”

Begrudgingly, he answers. “Yes, we suspect it was gang related.”

“Gang related or not—the boy died. While in your agency’s custody.”

Smeed nods, his eyes flat. “That’s correct.”

I pick up a third file. “Matilda Weiss, age four.”

The opposing attorney pops up like a rodent in Whac-a-Mole. “What does this have to do with Chelsea McQuaid’s competency as a guardian?”

“I’m getting there, Your Honor.”

“Get there quickly, Mr. Becker,” she replies.

“Tell me about the Weiss case, Mr. Smeed—your signature is on her file.”

He rubs his hands on his pants, sniffs, and then answers. “There was an allegation of child abuse against the Weiss family.”

“And you investigated? Visited the home, conducted interviews?”