I slip back into the shadows and creep down the hallway toward Jake's old room.
On the wall lining the hallway are more family photos. One is the official portrait we had done when I was nine and Jake was six, the same age his boy is now.
My chest tightens as I peer up at it.
Jake's giggling in the photo, his floppy hair falling over his eyes and his mouth wide in a big toothy grin.
That was Jake for you, always laughing about something.
Our entire family is looking at him with grins on our faces. I don't remember the photo being taken, but I'm not surprised Jake is the center of it. His laugh could make us all laugh. Even me.
A smile tugs at my face as I look at my brother.
My brother. The one I couldn't save. Whose child needs saving now.
I stare at Jake's young face smiling out at me, and I know what I need to do.
5
ALANA
The screen of my laptop stares at me, stubbornly blank. I've been staring at it for the last fifteen minutes, but all I can think about is the Monroes who I'm supposed to be handing Sam over to today.
On one hand, they painted a perfect picture of a stable and caring family. If I hadn't witnessed the mother collapsing, I'd feel reassured about Sam's place there.
After making sure she was okay, I made myself scarce and left the family to their privacy. But it makes me question their ability to handle a six-year-old.
Then there's Sam's uncle. The military man who's overprotective to the point of being an ass. He barreled in demanding a DNA test, which we would have provided, anyway.
Is that really the kind of role model a grief-stricken boy needs growing up?
But then again, what are the other options? He's going to the family unless there is an extremely compelling reason not to place him there.
I'm pulled out of my thoughts by my desk phone ringing. It's Katie, the receptionist.
"There's someone here to see you."
There's something smug about her tone that I can't place.
"I'll be out in a minute."
I pull up my calendar and check to see if I've forgotten a meeting, but there are no missed appointments.
I head out to reception and come to an abrupt stop. Pacing in front of the desk is the over-protective military man, Amos.
Blue jeans hug his perfect ass, and my gaze traces his movements as he paces. He turns around, folding his arms across his chest. His muscles bulge out of a tight white t-shirt, making his tattoos dance.
A weird fluttering disrupts my stomach, and I squash that down real quick. The last thing I need is to be attracted to someone, least of all someone tied to one of my cases.
I drag my gaze from his muscles to his face. I can ignore the fluttering, I can ignore the rippling muscles, but I can't ignore the devastating smile that lights up his face when he sees me.
"Amos," I say, and it comes out as a squeak. I cough and try again. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Is there somewhere we can talk?" he asks.
Our offices are in one corner of the council building, and there are shared meeting rooms by reception. I indicate an empty meeting room, and he follows me inside.
I take a seat, and the plastic chair creaks under me. There are stains on the carpet and coffee rings on the table. All our funds go toward the kids, and I'm not ashamed of our rundown workspace.
