“That won’t be necessary.”
Chelsea sits in the chair beside the table and clasps Rory’s left hand in hers. Her smile is so loving, so tender, my chest aches looking at her. The doctor adjusts the table so Rory’s flat on his back, then he shows me where to brace his shoulders, holding him still. They gave him some pain meds, but even with them, I know from experience, getting two halves of your broken bone rubbed together doesn’t fucking tickle.
“Just breathe, Rory,” the doctor tells him—like that’ll help—and my chest starts aching for a completely different reason. Then he holds the kid by his wrist and near the elbow and starts.
“Ahh!” Rory yells. His voice is sharp and shocked and hits me like a shank to the stomach. “Ahh!” he calls again, trying to grit his teeth.
Chelsea tightens her grip, looking at him earnestly, letting him know she’s here, sharing his pain—even if she can’t save him from it. And I whisper to him, right against his ear, giving him the only comfort I can, wishing like hell that I could take this pain for him.
“You’re doing so good, kid. It’s almost done.”
“Ahh . . .”
“Almost there, Rory . . . almost there . . .”
? ? ?
“This cast is totally badass!” Rory admires the camo-patterned plaster that now covers his arm from elbow to hand. I chuckle because he bounced back quickly, and obviously his sparkling personality is intact.
Chelsea gives him the obligatory chiding for his language—but she’s smiling too.
“Hey—could you draw a tattoo on my cast? Like yours?” Rory asks, pointing to the tats visible in my short-sleeved T-shirt.
“Sure.”
Chelsea looks around. “I wonder what’s taking so long with the discharge papers? I’m going to go ask . . . oh, hey, Janet!”
A woman steps within the curtained area where we’re waiting. She’s a black woman, in her midthirties, with tightly cropped brown hair and a bright smile, wearing a beige suit and white blouse.
“Hi, Chelsea.” Her eyes fall to Rory, on the bed. “Hi, Rory, I heard you had an accident.”
Rory shrugs, his earlier smile replaced with a distrusting scowl.
Janet looks me over and I notice her gaze pause at the tattoos on my arms.
“Jake, this is Janet Morrison,” Chelsea says, introducing us. “She’s our social worker from CFSA. Janet, this is Jake Becker, my . . .”
She searches for the word. “Lawyer,” I supply, offering Janet my hand. “I’m with Adams and Williamson.”
Janet nods her head. “That’s right—you negotiated Rory’s release with probation after . . . the car incident.”
It might just be the nature of my job, but I’m not a big fan of government agencies—or their employees. Too much power, too many people—too many mistakes that can so easily be made without any accountability. That’s what has me asking, “So, Janet—did you just happen to be in the area?”
“No.” She glances at the open file in her hand. “Whenever a child in our system has an incident at school, at a hospital, or with the police, we’re automatically flagged.” She turns to Chelsea. “Do you mind if I ask you my questions now before you go?”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
“Great. The doctor said Rory fell out of a tree. Did you see him fall, Chelsea?”
And I suddenly get a bad fucking feeling about this. Chelsea doesn’t appear to share my concern.
“No. I actually wasn’t home when he fell out of the tree.”
This is news to Janet. “Where were you?”
Chelsea’s eyes slide my way. “I was . . . with Jake.”
“Your lawyer?”
“It was sort of a working breakfast meeting,” I explain smoothly.
“I see.” She writes something down on the file. “So who was with the children while you were at your meeting?”
“Jake’s mother,” Chelsea answers.
Pen poised, Janet asks me, “Your mother’s name and address?”
“Giovanna Becker.” Then I rattle off her phone number and address and tell Janet it’s fine to contact her whenever she wants to.
She closes her file. “That’s all I need from you right now, Chelsea. Is it all right if I speak with Rory alone for a few minutes?”
“He’s a minor,” I tell her.
“In cases like this it’s standard to speak with children alone.”
“Cases like this?” I ask, schooling my tone. “What kind of case do you think this is, exactly?”
Janet isn’t the backing-down type. “It’s a case where an injury has been sustained and abuse needs to be ruled out.”
“Abuse?” I half-laugh, half-choke. “You think she did this?” I point at Chelsea.
“No, Mr. Becker, I don’t. However, if she had, Rory would be much less likely to divulge that information with you both in the room.”
And I do actually see her point. I just don’t like it.
I look to Rory. “You up to talking, kid? It’s your call.”