I whip out my phone to text Bentley. My heart races a little bit just thinking about him, and I hate to do this, but I do not have time to rush to his place to pick him up, and I can’t expect him to drive forty minutes to this guy’s home on the edge of the North End.

  SLAMMED AT WORK. I’M SURE YOU ARE TOO. YOU CAN SKIP TONIGHT’S PARTY. IT’S NORTH OF THE CITY, AND IT’S AT SOME GUY’S HOUSE.

  NICE TRY. I’M COMING.

  Now my heart’s really pounding. Shouldn’t he be relieved to be off the hook? I CAN’T COME PICK YOU UP. I HAVE TO GO TO DEAL WITH AN ADMIN HURDLE AND THEN GO STRAIGHT THERE. And I’ll be wearing my boring black suit, blue blouse, and slate heels.

  Today is just not my day.

  TEXT ME THE ADDRESS.

  I should argue further. I should refuse to give him the info, but I did my part. I gave him an out, and if he doesn’t want to take it, that’s not on me. Right?

  Right.

  I can’t help smiling on my way to the apartment listed on the twins’ paperwork from last year. I hope they haven’t moved. That would make this even more irritating. I got the distinct impression that money was really tight for the mom and that the girls’ extra income really helped. You’d think she’d be a little more motivated to respond to my messages instead of letting her eleven-year-old daughters handle them.

  When I get there, the mailbox still says McKinnon. That’s promising.

  I buzz the apartment, but no one answers. Luckily, a neighbor waves me over. “They never answer for anyone but delivery,” he says.

  “They work for me, actually, so I swear I’m not up to anything nefarious,” I say.

  “Eh, you don’t look too scary.” He just bobs his head and ducks into his apartment after letting me through.

  It was great he allowed me in, but it doesn’t inspire confidence that they’ll just wave anyone along.

  I stumble down the line of apartments, many with numbers hanging askew, kick aside piles of accumulated leaves, and try to make sense of the bizarrely ordered rows. I do finally find theirs, and I tap on the door. It’s four in the afternoon, so hopefully their mom’s not picking them up from school or tennis practice or anything.

  No one answers.

  I bang.

  Still nothing.

  I’m about to give up and try to come back later, when I hear voices inside. Not loud ones, but it’s enough that I know someone is home.

  “Girls? It’s me, Barbara from Follow. I just need to get some forms signed by your mom, and it’ll be super quick. I have a new job for you, and it’s a great one.”

  There’s some scuffling around, and then a bit of whispering, and then the door opens a crack. “Barbara?” It’s Nikki, I think. She has eyes that are slightly darker blue than Ricki’s and her hair’s almost always down, falling across her eyes.

  “See?” I wave.

  But she doesn’t open the door. She just sticks her arm through the crack.

  “The thing is, hon, I need to get your mom’s signature. You two are minors, so I kind of need to confirm with her that it’s fine for you to be working with us.”

  “Oh.” She nods. “Well, I’ll run it back to her, and then I’ll bring it up to you. Will that work?”

  It’s strange. Why wouldn’t her mother come to the door? “Is she not feeling well?” In that moment, I catch a whiff of something ripe from the inside of their apartment—like spoiled fruit or unwashed… something. It’s not confidence-inspiring either.

  Nikki looks worried. “She has a stomach ache.”

  “That’s no good,” I say. “Is there something I can do? I could run grab medicine, or I could take her to the doctor if that would help. I have a car.”

  Nikki shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. She just can’t come to the door.”

  I don’t like it, but I finally pass the paper to her and wait.

  Two minutes later, she’s back, and the signature looks just like the one from before—like an eleven-year-old authored it.

  Something is definitely up.

  “Girls.” I frown. “Is your mom really in there? Because I have a fiduciary duty to you and your mother to make sure that she knows what’s happening.”

  “She’s here. That’s her signature.” Nikki nods.

  I know it’s not. I pulled the paperwork and her signature did not look like that last year, but arguing with an eleven-year-old is like complaining that concrete’s hardening. Useless. “Well, thanks.”

  I walk to the front of the complex and call my boss. “Are you almost here?” Jennifer usually avoids holiday parties like the plague—she’s atheist and she hates pretending to celebrate Christmas. But Gary’s a big enough client that she was stuck when he asked for her specifically.

  “I’ve hit a small snag.” I explain that I’m pretty sure the girls are forging their mom’s signature and that I’m worried she may be sick or in trouble.

  “You’re not their babysitter,” she says. “Put the paper in the file and as long as they’re making their posts, don’t worry about it. Are you worried they won’t honor their obligations to the clients?”

  “I mean, not exactly.”

  “Then what’s the issue?”

  “I’m worried about them,” I say. “They’re kids, and honestly, it kind of looks like their mom has either checked out or is in trouble.”

  “That sounds like their dad’s issue.”

  “I’ve never heard anything about their dad,” I say. “I think they had an affidavit on file saying they had only one guardian.”

  “Listen, you’re not a judge and you’re not a social worker, you’re a marketer. You’re my marketer, and I just found out they’re doing holiday karaoke, so you’re going to get your cute tushy over here in the next thirty minutes or else, because I can’t sing, but I know you can.” She hangs up.

  Well.

  I sigh long and slow, but when I start for my car, I feel really, really uncomfortable. Instead of heading to the party like I know I should, I call Seren and tell her the same thing I just told Jennifer.

  “You know, life has a lot of paths.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “Only you know which one to take.”

  “Seren, I’m asking what I should do right now. I don’t have time for some philosophical debate.”

  “You have a job,” she says. “And tonight, you have a party to get to, right?”

  “I do,” I say. “Yes. I should go.”

  “But you didn’t go. You called me instead.”

  “Only because. . .” I realize it sounds kind of dumb to say that I called her because she’s a foster mom, and her kids are messed up, and I’m beginning to worry that these kids are messed up too.

  “In my experience, people usually already know what they ought to do when they call to ask for advice,” Seren says. “I can’t tell you what the right move is, but your heart already knows, or you’d be in your car en route to that party.”

  I think about those sweet little girls, and I just can’t go anywhere until I’m sure that they’re alright.

  “Can you send me your social worker’s information?”

  “Sure,” Seren says. “But be warned. Alice is. . .a lot.”

  “That’s fine,” I say.

  Only, I’m not expecting her to be quite so brusque. You’d think that social workers would be the first in line to try and help a child. “You have no evidence that these kids need a single thing,” she says. “You have guesses and supposition. Their mom could have the flu. She could be working two jobs. She’s replying to emails, they have an apartment to live in—unless you have more evidence than that, we have no right to even investigate. I can’t document that we have a hunch there’s something wrong, or that they allegedly forged a signature. I’d need to investigate half the kids at every school in America if that was enough.”

  “But—”

  “If you find out something concrete, or if there’s any real cause for you to think these kids aren’t safe, call me back, but not before then.”

  Evidence? She wants evidence? Fine.

  My next call is to Bentley. “I have a weird favor to ask.”

  “Stranger than pretending to be your boyfriend or swapping cars so I look like a regular guy?”

  That makes me laugh. “Maybe.” I explain what I want him to do, and after he agrees and reroutes to meet me here, I do a little research. By the time he gets here, I’m ready. I hand him a box that’s actually still hot.

  “Pizza?”

  “This place is the closest pizza parlor to their apartment, and I’m guessing they’ve ordered from it before. Probably regularly.” At least, the guy said they only open for delivery, and pizza is like delivery 101. Especially for little kids.

  “Okay.”

  “So you need to tell them that they won the pizza, and then when they open the door, walk right on in to deliver it to their table.”

  “And you’re going to follow me, say Boo, and take a look around?”

  “You’re making it sound creepy,” I say. “I’m going to just peek in and see if their mother is anywhere to be found.”

  “And if she’s not?” He arches one eyebrow.

  “Then I’m going to ruin Alice’s night.”

  “Who’s Alice?”

  “The social worker who thinks I’m crazy.”

  He nods. “So we have all the players assembled. The two kids, the marketing busybody, the social worker who thinks you’re crazy, and your friend who also thinks you’re crazy, but who’s too afraid of you to say no.”

  I shove his shoulder.

  “Just promise me one thing,” he says.

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to be in jail at the end of the night, right?”

  I roll my eyes. “Just go. It’s that one on the end.” I point. He looks back at me twice, but on the third time, I wave him forward and toss my head. “Go already.”

  He knocks lightly.

  “Hello?” I can barely hear them from where I’m standing, two doors down.

  “Pizza delivery.”

  “We didn’t order pizza,” one of them says.

  “You won this one—it’s a large half pepperoni, half cheese. It’s our most popular pie.”

  “How did we win? We didn’t enter a contest.”

  “It’s a customer appreciation award,” he says. “We chose randomly from our best customers over the past year.”

  “Oh.” There’s some kind of back and forth, but then I hear it.

  The sound of a lock sliding in the door, and the grinding and groaning of the door being opened.

  Exactly as I asked, Bentley shoves his way through.

  “Hey,” Nikki says. “Why’s a pizza guy wearing a suit?”

  “They made me,” he says. “It’s part of the award.”

  “You have to wear a suit?” Ricki shakes her head. “Just hand it to me.”

  “Look, I have to get a photo,” he says. “With you holding the pizza. Do you want it or not?” He pauses like he doesn’t care.

  He’s pretty good at this, if I’m being honest. I’m not sure I’d have come up with that. He hands the pizza to Nikki, and waves for Ricki to come over.

  I whip out my phone, realizing what he’s doing. He’s getting me my evidence. As I come around the corner, the open door coming into view, I nearly freeze in place.

  Their apartment would make a landfill look nice.

  There’s so much trash that I can’t see a clear surface. Pizza boxes. Delivery cartons. Bags. Discarded and half-eaten food. I snap a few photos, and then I move closer.

  “Hey,” Nikki says. “Why are you still here?”

  “Actually.” Bentley turns around. “She’s with me.”

  Ricki—I think, since her hair is in a ponytail—scowls. “I knew it. I told you we didn’t win any contest.”

  “Girls.” When I step inside the room, the smell’s overpowering. I’m not sure how it didn’t slap me in the face when they cracked the door earlier. “Is your mother really here?”

  Looking around at the trash, and holding as steady as I can when a cockroach runs across the pile right in front of me, I’m virtually certain there are no adults present.

  “Is she at the hospital?” Bentley asks.

  “She was.” Ricki’s eyes flash. “Before.”

  “Before what?” I almost don’t want to know.

  “She died three months ago,” Nikki says. “But we’ve been living here alone for almost a year, and we’re fine.”

  “Where’s your dad?” Bentley asks.

  “Who knows?” Ricki asks. “And who cares?”

  “You can’t live here alone,” I say. “It’s not safe.”

  “Yeah, creeps could pretend we won a prize and break in.” Ricki tosses the box on the sofa and folds her arms, glaring.

  “Touché,” I say. “But I did that because I was worried about you.”

  “Well, you don’t need to worry,” she says. “We have more money than ever now that we don’t have to pay the medical bills.”

  I hate that I left my phone on, videotaping what she said, but it’s the evidence Alice will need, I imagine. I text it to her—photos, the video.

  “Girls, I’ve been talking to a social worker, and⁠—”

  “No.” Nikki picks up the pizza box and throws it at the door. “Get out. We don’t want anyone to ‘help’ us.” She makes air quotes.

  “They have systems in place for this,” I say. “The help is real.”

  “Our friend Madison went to an orphanage and she said it’s horrible,” Nikki says.

  “She probably went to a group home,” I say. “They don’t really have orphanages anymore.”

  “Who cares what they call it?” Ricki asks. “We can pay our rent, and we are. We usually go to school, too. So leave us alone.”

  “How about we work on trying to get this place cleaned up,” I say. “Because the social worker will be here soon, and I imagine it’ll look better if it’s not totally full of trash.” When I grab a half-full bag from the corner, a rat explodes out of it, leaping toward my face.

  He pivots and hops over my shoulder, his poky little claws racing down across my back as he books it for the door. I was unprepared, though, and I definitely scream.

  Really long, and really loud.

  “The rats leave you alone,” Nikki says. “Unless you try to clean.”

  I can’t help shuddering. “You cannot stay here tonight.”

  “Where do you think we’re going, then?” Ricki asks. “Because we’re not going to a group home.” She folds her arms and sets her jaw.

  “What if they let you come stay with me?” I ask.

  They don’t say no, but they don’t look excited, either. I’m probably not their favorite person right now, and that’s okay.

  “What about him?” Nikki glares at Bentley. “I’m guessing he’s not really a pizza guy.”

  “He’s not,” Bentley says. “He’s a friend of Barbara’s.”

  “I asked him to help, because the neighbor told me you only let delivery people through the door.”

  The girls keep arguing with me, and Bentley braves his way through filling and taking out as many bags and boxes of trash as they have in the apartment before Alice arrives. He dislodges three more rats, but one of them is pretty small.

  Impressively, he never shrieks. He doesn’t even whimper, not even when the bottom falls out of a soggy box and covers his fancy shoes in sludge. The smell gets worse, which surprises me, but maybe that’s normal in a clean-up operation.

  When Alice gets there, I think the place is looking way better, but she still looks horrified. I task Bentley to keep the girls busy so we can talk with a tiny bit of privacy in the front entry area. “I’ve called the central office for an emergency placement, and I think⁠—”

  “What about me?” I ask.

  “You have to have a home study and take classes on fostering⁠—”

  “I have,” I say. “And so has he.” I toss my head at Bentley.

  “Right,” Alice says. “Because you’re friends with Seren and Dave.”

  “I’m Seren’s family now,” I say. “So of course I had to go through all the training and approvals so I’d be an option for respite care. Their youngest is a teenager at this point, but I revised my home study after my divorce in case they ever had to leave the country. Plus, with them, you never know when they’ll take someone else in.”

  Alice smiles. “Or, apparently, when you will.”

  “Girls,” I say, moving back into the main part of the apartment. “Let’s get your bags packed. I have a really nice guest room.”

  “Do you actually have a deluxe guest room?” Bentley asks.

  I shrug. “Deluxe might be a stretch, but compared to this place, it’s the Ritz frigging Carlton.”

  He laughs. “I’m assuming it’s cockroach and rodent free.”

  “Last I checked,” I say. “Doing the dishes every day really helps me.”

  “I haven’t seen that many rats in years,” he says. “And I visit the City pretty often.”

  I drop my voice to a whisper while Alice is interrogating the girls. “You think I’m crazy for bringing them to my place?”

  “I’m not the one you should worry about.” He looks pointedly at my phone where it’s poking out of my purse. It’s lit up again—Jennifer has called at least eight times.

  “I have a party I need to go by,” I say. “Is there any chance I could do that and then take them home?”

  Alice had picked up a call, which I didn’t realize. She says, “Lemme call you right back.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that⁠—”

  “You should let me place them with a foster home that’s ready for this kind of thing.” She frowns. “I pulled your file, and you’re recently divorced.”

  It feels like she just slapped me. “Does that really matter?”

  “Divorce wrecks people, and being a foster parent wrecks people, and in my experience, most people who are already recovering from something aren’t ready for the fallout.”

  “I’m ready,” I say. “It’s fine. I don’t have to go to the party.”

  She arches her eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

 

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