2. Alana
ALANA
T he 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.
"We found letters among Jake's things." Avery's brow furrows in confusion. "They're addressed to a Sofia Eaves. I assumed that would be the mother."
I check the name on the file. "No, it's Bridgett Smith."
Avery rubs her temples. "Then who is Sofia Aves?"
The family all look at each other with troubled expressions. Who their late relative was writing to is not my concern, but it does mean he kept secrets from his family, and having a son seems to be one of them.
"As you've heard, Bridgett, the mother, was killed in a car crash three days ago.
She has no family. She and her son were living in a rented room above a laundromat in Charlotte.
" I don't add that when I went to retrieve Sam's belongings, we found mold in the apartment and a strange smell that turned out to be maggots living in an overflowing trash can.
"What can you tell us about her?" asks Avery.
"She worked as a waitress in a local diner and left the boy with her landlady while she worked. The landlady and her work colleagues say she never mentioned family or your Jake."
The family share a look, and I can tell they're as confused as I am.
They claim they didn't know about the child, and I want to believe them.
They seem nice, especially Shona with the pie and kind eyes.
But my line of work has taught me not to take anything at face value.
People aren't always what they seem. And if they did know about Sam, and they left the mother and son in a single room together, with damp and mold festering in the corners, then it leads me to question whether they really do want him.
Our goal is always reunification of the family, but if there's a compelling reason why he'd be better outside the family, then I have to explore that.
Perhaps he's better going into foster care.
He's six years old; there's still a chance he could be adopted out.
I rub the back of my neck, knowing that's unlikely. This family is the best chance he has of avoiding a life in the system.
"It's hard to understand why he wouldn't tell us," Shona says. "We could have helped them."
"He can't have known," says the father. "I taught my boys to own up to their responsibilities. Jake would never have left his son and the mother of his child in a destitute situation."
He grasps the back of the chair, determined to believe the best of his late son.
The silent man reaches into his pocket and produces a notepad; he scribbles something on it and slides the pad across the table to me.
I peer at the note.
Are there bank records of child support?
I glance up at the silent man as realization dawns. He can't speak. Whatever accident gave him that nasty scar took away his speech.
"Good question," I say aloud. "I don't have access to the deceased's finances."
It's not something we'd usually look into, but I feel for this family, trying to come to terms with their own loss and put the pieces together about their surprise young relative.
"I can look into it."
I make a note, thinking about the strings I'll need to pull to get hold of Bridgett's bank records.
But I'll do what I can to help this family.
If Bridgett knew Jake Monroe was the father and named him on the birth certificate, surely she would have requested child support payments.
The courts would have chased him for her.
"Did you find anything among Jake's belongings?" I ask.
Avery shakes her head. "Nothing that I remember, but I wasn't looking for traces of a son." She balls her fists. "It's just not like Jake. If he'd known he had a child, he would have done the right thing. He would have wanted to be part of the boy’s life. I'm sure."
I've seen enough cases in my time to know that not all men want to acknowledge their offspring. But I don't want to shatter the family’s image of their loved one. Who knows? Perhaps he was one of the good ones.
"What's the process now?" Shona asks. "We've got a spare room we can get ready for him."
She's eager, which is a good sign for Sam.
"He's coming out of the hospital tomorrow, and I'll bring him straight here."
There's a murmur of surprise, and I feel for the family. They're about to get their lives rearranged to take in a boy they never knew about. But at least Sam will have a home and people to care for him.
"I better get the spare room cleared out."
Shona pushes her chair back from the table and leans heavily on the table to stand up. She's frail for someone in her late fifties, and I wonder again how she'll handle a rambunctious boy under her roof.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway makes her stop in her tracks.
"That will be Amos." Her face lights up. "Our eldest son is just home from deployment."
A car door slams, followed by quick footsteps. Then the front door opens, and a moment later a man strides into the dining room.
He's broad-shouldered, like his father. His sandy blond hair falls over his forehead, and there's a hint of stubble on his square jaw. He bursts into the room with a magnetic energy that has everyone standing up taller.
His stormy blue eyes fix on his mother, a frown set on his face. "Did you get the paternity test? Do we know if the kid is Jake’s?"
I bristle at his words. It seems not everyone in the family is as kind as Shona.