Page 1 of Defending Van

Chapter

One

August 24th

2:44 P.M.

In the seven or so years since Makayla Adair had become a social worker, she’d done a whole lot of home visits. She’d been yelled at, spat on, and physically attacked on more than one occasion, but she’d never walked up to a house and had this eerie sense of foreboding.

Something felt wrong this afternoon, but she had no idea what it could be.

This was supposed to be a quick check on a six-year-old boy who had recently been returned to his biological parents. She’d fought against it happening, she was one hundred percent positive that the child wasn't safe here. The little boy had suffered basically every kind of abuse there was, neglect, verbal, emotional, psychological, physical, and even sexual.

More often than not, the child went to school dirty and without anything to eat. He never had any money put in his account for lunch, and the bruises constantly littering his skin, plus the obvious neglect, were what had prompted his teachers to file the initial report. What she’d found when she was assigned the case was so much worse.

The poor baby was hit daily from what he’d told her when she finally gained his trust enough to get him talking. If he cried, he’d either be locked out of the house and forced to sleep in the yard, or he’d be locked in a closet in the kitchen, possibly left there for days at a time. Given the boy’s age and his inability to accurately judge time, she wasn't sure that it was actually days, but it didn't matter. Even a minute was too long to lock a child out of a house, and definitely in a closet.

Due to the father’s anger issues, he couldn’t hold down a job, throw in some gambling addictions and a love of alcohol, and she wasn’t surprised to see the house they lived in was more falling down than standing up. The mother seemed to be operating on autopilot. She hadn't spoken a word any of the times Makayla had interviewed the family, and the blank look in her eyes said she’d checked out. Likely she’d been the target of abuse before her husband turned his attention to their son, and she’d just shut down.

What sealed the deal in removing the little boy was the fact that his father pimped him out for extra money when he couldn’t pay the bills. That was also why she’d fought as hard as she could to make sure the child wasn't returned to this house of hell.

It wasn't what she learned from her studies, or from her years on the job that told her this little boy would never be safe here, it was what she knew from her own personal experience. She’d been a foster kid and had a father just like the man who lived here. So many times she’d been removed from her home, sent to some horror story foster family, and then returned to her parents. Each time she was sent back home, it got worse. Eventually, she’d be taken again, but the cycle continued, and she didn't want that for this child. Especially since he’d actually been placed with a wonderful foster family and had begun to thrive.

Now he was back here thanks to the system prioritizing reunification over what was best for children. Makayla hated that and fought as hard as she could for the children placed in her care, but she was only one person, and she couldn’t change an entire system.

Standing before the dilapidated farmhouse, she felt sick to her stomach, wondering what she was going to find here. Maybe …

No.

She didn't want to acknowledge that possibility.

Yet …

As far as she was concerned, it wasn't outside the realms of possibility that the father had lost it, and wound up killing his son, his wife, and then himself. There had been several guns in the house, and she could easily imagine, in a fit of fury, the man grabbing one, turning it on his family before ending his own life so he wouldn't have to face the consequences of his actions.

Hurrying up the porch steps, she bypassed the boards that had broken all the way through, and even the ones that weren't broken yet creaked under her weight. Hammering her fist on the door, she shivered as the eerie feeling continued to grow. Maybe she should have brought a cop with her. While this was one of the most volatile fathers she’d ever dealt with, she hadn't expected any problems today.

Stupid.

She should always predict problems. It saved a lot of trouble in the long run.

“Mr. Smith? Mrs. Smith? It’s Makayla Adair with Child Protective Services. I'm here for our scheduled meeting,” she called out. There was no answer, and she hadn't expected one. The house felt empty.

Over the years, she’d gotten pretty good at honing her instincts. It was the only way to survive in the system when you kept getting sent to home after home where abuse and neglect were rampant. Even in the best home she’d ever lived in, her foster parents had provided only the bare minimum. Clothes that fit, a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and that was it. She’d had to do almost all the housekeeping, as well as cook the meals, and been locked in her room on Christmas Day, because it wasn't their responsibility to give her holiday treats.

If she could save some of her kids from having to grow up like she did, feeling unwanted, unseen, and uncared about, then her life would mean something, and all the suffering she’d been through would mean something. She worked a ton of overtime, gave all of herself to her kids, and was their safe place to talk if they needed it. Unlike her own social worker when she was a kid, who was overworked, underpaid, and tapped out. Two decades in the job had desensitized her, and she hadn't really cared about the children in her care. Makayla never wanted to become like that.

Another knock, another no answer.

Knocking again, harder this time, the door swung open.

Immediately, Makayla sniffed the air, seeking out the heavy scent of blood. But there was none, and she let out a breath. There was no scent of decay either, so maybe she wasn't about to step into the scene of a murder suicide.

Going inside was probably stupid, but if there was any chance that her little charge was in danger—well, immediate danger—then she wasn't standing out here and waiting for back up. Pulling out her phone, she sent a quick text to her boss, asking him to send out a patrol car, then she took a step inside.

Quiet.

Too quiet.