“And you know this how? From some textbook?”
Trembling with anger, Grace faced him. “What happens to a fourteen-year-old girl who gets pregnant and her parents kick her out? What if her boyfriend was just using her and doesn’t care what she does? How does she make a living? The people she thought loved her don’t. Where does she go? How does she earn money to buy food or keep a roof over her head? So she sells herself once, just so she can eat. Then she feels so dirty nothing matters after that. People look at her like she’s trash anyway. Now she believes she is. She can’t see any way out.”
All the anger went out of him. “Any of that ever happen to you?”
“No, but it doesn’t mean I can’t have empathy.” Clearly, he didn’t. Feeling sick, Grace walked away.
Roman didn’t follow her, but she felt him watching her. She went to the next corner of the town grid before she looked back. He stood where she’d left him, hands shoved in the pockets of his black leather bomber jacket, looking at the ramshackle house where the prostitute once lived.
They met at the car, both calm. “I’m sorry, Roman. I didn’t mean to get on a soapbox.”
He pushed the ignition button. “I can see why you like psychology. You can make a career of rescuing people for the rest of your life.”
Like Patrick. “No, thanks. Been there, done that, and it ended badly. I’m having enough trouble sorting out my own life to be of any use to others.”
“Sounds like we may have something else in common.”
BOBBY RAY, AGE 10
Bobby Ray reckoned he had been in more than fifteen foster homes by now. He ran away from eight. If he couldn’t get out, he got thrown out. He set fire to one garage. He threw a foster brother’s bicycle into traffic. He kicked dents in the side of a brand-new foster family van. He chucked a bag of dog feces into another foster family’s hot tub. Some foster couples collected monthly checks and let him run wild, until the police found him back on Turk Street.
He was smart. He was shrewd. Every textbook parenting technique was tried on him. None worked. He didn’t get along with other children. He didn’t trust adults. Several families said the boy needed stability and a forever home and tried to adopt him. He said no, hating them for what they were trying to do. Sheila Dean was his mother, and no one was taking her place. Not ever. She was out there in the city someplace, and he was going to find her.
Miss Bushnell, the sad-eyed, weary social worker, had handed his case over to her supervisor, Ellison Whitcomb, a man who had put in twenty-five years in social services. Whatever feelings of hope and purpose he’d had when he started his chosen career had long since died in the heavy caseload of heartache and human tragedy. Bobby Ray was just another rootless, troubled kid with a thick file. Whitcomb talked with another caseworker in the corridor while Bobby Ray sat waiting and listening.
“At least he hasn’t killed anyone.”
Whitcomb gave a bleak laugh. “Give him time.”
Whitcomb took a seat behind the desk. He looked worn-out. He opened a package of Tums and popped a couple into his mouth. A poster of a white, sandy beach with Florida in blazing letters hung on his wall. He asked Bobby Ray how many times he planned to run away.
“As many as it takes.”
“To do what?”
“Find my mother.”
Whitcomb didn’t say a word after that. He didn’t push or pry or even try to make Bobby Ray talk. He just leaned back, folded his hands, and studied him. Bobby Ray stared back, angry. He knew the game and didn’t break eye contact.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors, kid.”
Bobby Ray told him what Whitcomb could do to himself. Whitcomb tapped the file on his desk. “I’m going to be gone for five minutes; then I’ll be back.” Bobby Ray got the message. As soon as Whitcomb left the office, he grabbed the file.
Bobby Ray Dean. Father: unknown. Mother: Sheila Dean.
Bobby Ray read quickly.
. . . arrested four times for prostitution . . . released on her own recognizance . . . overdosed on heroin in Starlight Motel, listed as a Jane Doe until identified by fingerprints.
Bobby Ray’s heart stopped. He reread the last part, hoping he had gotten it wrong. His stomach dropped, and cold seeped through him. Mama’s dead. How could that be? Wouldn’t he have felt something? Known somehow, someway?
Whitcomb returned, took the file from the desk, and tucked it away in the tall metal filing cabinet. “So now you know, Bobby Ray.”
Mama still spoke to him in his dreams sometimes. I’m doing the best I can, baby. You know I’m gonna come back. Don’t I always?
BACK ON THE MOUNTAIN ROAD, they passed high meadows, icy lakes, and towering pines. Grace was silent so long, Roman glanced over to see if she was asleep. She was wide-awake, faintly pensive. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’d like Samuel to see this. You can’t look at all this beauty and not believe. It’s harder in a city. There’s too much going on, too many distractions.”
“And temptations?” Roman gave her a teasing glance. “Not to mention, all those angry people on the freeways. Always in a hurry to get somewhere.” Like him, they probably didn’t know where they really wanted to go or how to get there.
“Can we stop?” She looked apologetic. “Just for a few minutes.”
Roman pulled off the road at the next wide spot. Grace thanked him and got out of the car. He came around the car and leaned against it, watching her. The air smelled heavily of pine. Grace picked her way among some boulders and climbed up onto a granite ledge overlooking a narrow, plunging valley. A breeze came up, and she spread her arms as though she might take a few steps and ride the wind. Roman lifted his phone. She took another step forward, and his heart lurched.
“Grace, stop!” Pocketing his phone, he went after her. He couldn’t see her for a few seconds and almost panicked. “Grace!”
“I’m right here.” There was another ledge just below the one she’d been on. “I could walk another ten feet and still be safe.” She took a few more steps.
He caught up to her, and gripped her arm. “Close enough.” When she looked at him in surprise, he let go of her.
“You were the one talking about climbing Half Dome.”
“Enough wandering around. Let’s go.”
Roman went ahead of her and lifted her down from the stone table. She gave a soft, tense laugh. “You’re as sure-footed as a mountain goat.”
“Comes from practicing parkour.” She picked up a pinecone on the way to the car. “You’re keeping that?”
“It’s the perfect souvenir, don’t you think?” She held it to her nose and inhaled. “A gift from the Lord that smells like the forest.”
He was getting used to the natural way Grace talked about God. He opened the car door for her. She slid in and tucked the pinecone into the tote bag, along with the rocks she’d collected along the way.
“Your bag must weigh a ton by now.”
“The Israelites picked up great stones when they crossed the Jordan River. When they reached the Promised Land, they made a memorial so they’d never forget what God had done.”
He’d read the Exodus story the night before, but he didn’t want to get into another God conversation. Maybe there was a God, but Roman doubted He cared. He pulled onto the road again. “We’re only two hours away from Golden.”
“Think you’ll accept the job?”
“Doubtful.” Before she asked why they were on this trip if he’d already made up his mind, he told her to call Jasper. “See if he can meet us at Masterson Ranch.” He could have made the call himself with one press of his thumb on the steering wheel, but he wanted to change the subject.