instead of living happily ever after.
The twins who were kept in cages in the basement under the care of foster parents who’d been taking kids into their home for four decades.
The nearly three hundred kids who’d been placed with a sexual predator over the sixteen years it took social workers to figure out that many of these kids were being molested.
Negligence. Incompetence. Heartlessness.
Horror stories.
Most social workers weren’t the careless or inept monsters showcased in the media. The majority were the ones the general public never heard about. Social workers who maneuvered deftly through the obstacle course among laws and legalities and court decisions for kids they were responsible for protecting.
Most social workers cared more for needy kids than they did their own paychecks, because no one got compensated for all the work. Most didn’t mind the long hours, and usually found a way to squeeze in just one more kid when they were already burdened by a staggering caseload.
Given the crushing demands of the job, it wasn’t hard to see how mistakes could happen even to the most caring and competent social workers. They managed needy kids’ lives the way an air traffic controller oversaw airspace: the consequences of one oversight, one distraction, one error could result in the loss of human life.
The life of a child.
Courtney’s thoughts slowed enough to finally see the street through the window. DCFS offices were located in a utilitarian building on Iberville Street north of all the French Quarter action. From her second-floor window, she overlooked the stone wall of the cemetery, discolored and stained like the mausoleums within, many overgrown with weeds protruding from odd places.
Interstate 10 ran the length of the cemetery and all the way to Florida. The green directional signs were the only splash of color in a scene that had never looked so bleak, washed in gray skies that promised rain. Somehow it fit that she couldn’t look at the interstate without thinking of Nanette.
“What happens now?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “How do we find Araceli?”
Giselle could only spread her hands in entreaty. She had no clue, because how on earth did one go about tracking down a child who had potentially been missing for eight years?
How could they even hope to find her alive?
* * *
“DAMON’S COMING TO get me, right?” Marc DiLeo forced out the question through gritted teeth.
After all these months, he should have been used to asking. He wasn’t. He resented the hell out of it.
Especially something as simple as a ride when he owned a Jeep and a Harley.
His older brother, Nic, glanced away from the road as they were driving down Canal Street in Nic’s police cruiser. At least no one could see them through the heavily tinted glass.
Did anyone even care that he was being chauffeured to his therapy session because he couldn’t drive himself?
No. It only felt that way.
“Damon’s teaching a class,” Nic said. “Anthony will pick you up, and if he can’t get away, he’ll send one of the guys.”
Great. Now Marc’s ability to burden everyone reached beyond family into the periphery, to the guys who worked in his younger brother Anthony’s automotive garage.
This was his mother’s fault. She’d bullied him into leaving Colorado Springs for rehab. Not that Marc had put up much of a fight. He’d been in a medically induced coma when many of the decisions about his care had been made. After the haze of anesthesia and painkillers from four surgeries had worn off, all the decisions had been made.
That had been the time to reassert control over his life. Only he hadn’t had any fight in him.
So his mother had seized the opportunity to bring him home to New Orleans. And everyone paid the price because she was the only one of the bunch who didn’t drive.
“Tell Anthony not to bother,” Marc said. “I’ll take a cab.”
“Don’t start with me. Everyone wants to help.”
Help? This family would kill him with their help, which was why he had moved to Colorado Springs in the first place. “I’d forgotten what a pain in the ass an older brother could be. Good thing you’re the only one I have. If I changed my name, I’ll bet none of you could find me.”
Nic gave a disgusted snort. But he glanced at the road. He scowled harder when some idiot in a showy Bimmer sliced out of one lane and cut into the other, forcing the Yukon in front of him to brake, and by default him.
“You know, you’re a cop,” Marc said. “You could pull that guy over and give him a ticket.”
“You know, you’re a jerk. You could try saying thanks for everyone’s help and leave it there. No one has a problem getting you to and from your sessions.”
“Wrong.” Marc had a big problem.
Nic braked hard, and Marc instinctively grabbed the oh-shit handle to hang on as the cruiser swung toward the curb so fast the tires screeched. Marc’s cane hit the door with a clatter. The cop lights flashed with an accompanying whoop of a siren, scaring the hell out of some pedestrians who broke formation on the sidewalk and scattered.
Nic didn’t seem to notice. Or care. “Have all those painkillers rotted your brain? Do I need to throw your sorry ass in detox?”
Sorry ass was right. Marc couldn’t rebut that fact, but he wasn’t listening to Nic rant, either. Guess this was his stop. He reached for his cane and the door handle. The handle moved, but the passenger door didn’t open. Nic controlled the locks.
“Isn’t there some law against double-parking?” Marc said. “You’re a cop. You should set an example by observing the law.”
“I’m not a cop,” Nic growled. “I’m the chief of police, which means I get to do whatever the hell I want. And right now I want you to listen to me.”
Great. Marc’s day was crashing and burning and he hadn’t even gotten to physical therapy yet. Okay, to be fair he had practically begged for this confrontation. Nic’s patience had been simmering for weeks. He was the oldest brother, and used to stepping in to clean up everyone’s mess in this family. He’d been doing the job since their father had died, leaving their mother with a bunch of little kids who had needed caring for. The years since hadn’t done much except shorten Nic’s fuse.
Marc was usually exempt from the bullying because he was next in line to the throne, the only one who had been old enough to work and make a difference, which took some of the responsibility off Nic’s shoulders.
Not today. Today, Marc had pushed too far.
“I want to know what the hell is wrong with you,” Nic demanded. “I want to know why you’re such a miserable pain in the ass to everyone who is going out of their way to help you.”
“That answer should be obvious.” It was stretched out awkwardly before
