I stare at her through the screen and see the hope in Mom's eyes. Hell, I feel it too. If there were any part of my brother left in this world, I'd want to grab it with both hands. But Jake wouldn't have kept something like this a secret. The chances are the poor kid's not his.
"Don't you think Jake would have told us if he had a child?" I say gently, hating to be the one to dash her hopes. "He wouldn't have kept this a secret. The boy might not be his."
Mom winces, and I hate how callous I sound.
"The boy needs a home, honey."
I hang my head because she's right. The kid needs a home. I just want my softhearted mom to make sure that he's Jake's before she takes on the responsibility of raising a kid at her age.
I run a hand through my hair. "Deployment ends this week. I'll be home in a few days. Please don't make any promises until I get back."
I end the call with their promises not to do anything until a paternity test confirms he's Jake's. I feel for the boy who needs a home. But I doubt he's Jake’s. Who would put Jake's name on the birth certificate and then not try to find him? Something is definitely off here.
2
ALANA
The young woman with the bouncy blonde hair smiles at me, oozing warmth, which is more than I can say for the huge man next to her with the jaunty scar down his cheek. He hasn't said a word since I arrived, and I'm trying not to let his silent presence affect my judgment about this family.
"Would you like another slice of pie?" I turn to Shona, the middle-aged woman and alleged grandmother of Sam.
She clasps her hands in front of her, trying to still the trembling. Her eyes are kind but nervous, a look I'm used to in my profession.
"No, I'm fine, thank you." She sits down quickly, and her husband moves to stand behind her, resting one beefy hand on the back of her chair. He stands upright, as intimidating as his soon-to-be son-in-law, which is what I've been told the silent, scarred one is.
"It's come as a shock to us," Shona says. "Jake never mentioned a child."
Her brow furrows, and she blinks quickly, chasing away tears. The last thing I want is to upset the family, but I'd like to learn more about them before I release Sam into their care. Call it professional interest. I could have dropped Sam off without meeting them, but every kid that passes through my casebook is one little soul looking for a home. I like to find out a bit about the families and what the kids are heading into. I want to make sure there's not a reason for me to suggest alternate arrangements.
"I realize this is unexpected," I say gently. "And I'm sorry to ask so many questions, but my concern is the boy's wellbeing. I want to make sure he has a place here."
"Of course he has a place here," Shona says. "He's our first grandchild." Her voice chokes with emotion, and the husband pats her shoulder.
"What else do you need to know?" he says gruffly. "We've brought up three children. We can handle another one."
It's a relief the family wants the boy. Not everyone is so understanding when they find out they've got a relative they didn't know about. Then again, not everyone is as privileged as the Monroes. The house is bigger than most I've seen in this line of work. Family photographs cover the walls of the room we're in, and military memorabilia hang beside them.
I've no doubt Shona and Patrick have done a fine job of raising three children, but Shona's hands shake and Patrick is retired. They don't seem to have the energy to take on a boisterous six-year-old boy.
"We live right across the street," says Avery, the blonde-haired daughter with the silent man by her side who looks like he's either a hitman or a war hero. "We'll be around to help."
I smile at her. The family is nervous, which is not unusual.
"Is there anything you want to ask me?"
"Who's the mother?" asks Avery.
I open the file on my laptop with the few details we have about Sam. "The mother is Bridgett Smith."
"Oh." Avery shares a puzzled look with her man.
"Is the name familiar to you, honey?" asks Shona. "Did Jake mention her to you?"
Avery shakes her head. "No. It's just the letters..."
She trails off and glances at her fiancé.
"There are letters?" I lean forward, hoping for more insight about this case and why a man who came from such privilege didn't own up to his own kid.
