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A brother? Absolutely.
Partner in crime? Yes, again.
Someone who tried to shield me from all the ghosts I fought with, but only because he promised to fight them with me.
God, I miss him.
“You’re going to change the world someday, Claire Russell.” He told me that once when we snuck to the lake hidden beyond the trees at the back of our houses.
“You’re going to be a famous footballer someday, Nick Sawyer.”
Sitting on a slab of stone, we turned to look at each other—pupils dilated, the smell of weed wafting through the air, and we lost it. We doubled over, coughing and spluttering until our eyes were bloodshot, and we couldn’t breathe.
“This isn’t fun anymore,” I moaned, feeling bile rise in my throat.
“I swear, if you ever tell Mandy we did this—”
“We need to survive it first.”
He watched me, I watched him, and the blood drained from our faces in slow motion.
We spent our first time getting stoned, giggling until we were in pain, and then we rubbed each other’s back when we vomited.
I still haven’t uttered a word to Mandy.
Her touch brings me back. She’s laughing, and I love how I’ve become so used to seeing her laugh now.
“That’s exactly what he’d say, but only because he’d finish with, ‘Claire, what are you still doing here?’”
My chest swells with emotion because I can almost hear him say it.
The hours pass by. My friends share the burden, taking some of the weight and carrying it as their own. Now and then, a voice echoes in my head:
You’re going to change the world someday, Claire Russell.
Chapter Four
My list of things I need to do this morning is longer than my arm. The air is too thick, and a bead of sweat trails down the back of my shirt, making me shiver. Strands of hair stick to my face. I pull it up, twisting it into something resembling a messy bun before sticking a pen through it, hoping it will keep it in place until I get back to the office.
I’ve just finished my final follow-up of the morning. I always get a nervous knot in the pit of my stomach when I go to check in on our kids who are placed in the care of other families. Most of the time, they do great, and they’re loved, but it’s not always the case. Some people are good at hiding the warning signs from caseworkers like me, and I’ve gotten on the wrong side of families for my inability to trust. But I’m not there to make friends with foster parents. I’m there to make sure our kids are treated with care—as they should be—and if that includes rooting out the bad apples by sticking my nose in a little too far, then so be it.
This morning’s meetings went well. School reports and inspections of the children in the home environment proved the kids were settling in.
I hope my judgment is right.
As I pull into the driveway of the children’s home, I immediately hear the screams of kids. And not the good kind.
This children’s home is owned by the Hope foundation. One of many homes around the country. It looks like any other house in the neighborhood. Two storeys, steps leading onto the front porch, a swing chair, and bicycles scattered around the garden. But the stories inside are enough to cause a chill in the very marrow of your bones.
I volunteered with them while I was a caseworker for the state, but the founder of the organization has been in my life since I was fourteen and was my college professor. Nora Johnson is a friend and a mother figure. When she asked me to come work for the Hope Foundation, I couldn’t say no.
Getting out of the car, I’m immediately greeted by two screaming children running toward me.
“Claire. Claire,” they shout in unison, flattening me against the door as they come crashing into my body.
Darren looks up at me with tears in his eyes, his bottom lip trembling. He’s our newest child, but after four weeks, he’s finally settling and getting to know his voice by the sounds of it.
He tugs at my t-shirt.
