Her hand is still raised as the van pulls away, led by a police cruiser, down the curved driveway, through the gate, and out of sight.
As soon as the blue van disappears, Chelsea’s face crumbles. A wheezing gasp comes from her throat and she hides her face in her open palms. I put my hands on her shoulders so she’s knows I’m right here with her.
And she screams. A horrible, piercing wail that I’ll never forget as long as I live. Pain so bare, so raw, that thoughts aren’t even possible—just an endless flow of agonized sobs.
Her knees give out, and I catch her.
She twists my shirt in her hands and hides her face against my chest, soaking it with tears by the time we get into the house. Her shoulders shake as she cries her heart out. “They were scared, Jake. Oh god, they were so scared.”
It’s horrible. Every word lands like the lash of a whip, cutting me, turning my insides into a raw, bloody mess. I take her straight to her room. The kids are everywhere in this house—their toys, their faces smiling back from pictures on the wall—but there it won’t be as haunting. I sit on the bed and cradle Chelsea in my arms. Stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, whispering words of reassurance that have no fucking meaning at all.
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.