24. Ani
Ani
T he door has barely even finished closing behind the sheriff before another knock sounds.
Boone and Jonah are still near the front windows. Finn hasn’t moved from where he’s standing between me and the entryway, hands still clenched tight. He looks ready to throw something.
Boone opens the door without looking back. He doesn’t ask who it is, just swings it open, his body still and squared.
A woman stands there in a blazer and slacks. I already know this is going to be bad. The tightness of her smile, the assessing look she gives before she even opens her mouth.
“I’m with Child Protective Services,” she says. “I’m here to follow up on a report we received.”
She doesn’t glance at Mae, who’s now tucked tightly against my side. And while she does glance at each of the men, her eyes land straight on me.
“We received a report,” she continues, “that a mentally unstable woman is currently responsible for the care of a minor child without supervision.”
My blood turns to ice.
She says the words so evenly. So politely. Like she’s reading from a script.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” the woman says, still looking at me.
Nobody invites her in. But she steps across the threshold anyway.
Boone shifts closer to Mae, who’s staring at the woman. Her arms are wrapped tightly around my waist, face pressed against my hip like she’s trying to disappear.
The woman introduces herself, asks if there’s somewhere we could talk privately, and then opens a small notepad as she settles at the kitchen table.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks, pen poised.
I glance toward the men who are all on high alert. Boone and Jonah look ready for battle. Finn gives me the smallest nod of encouragement to answer the woman’s question.
I swallow hard and answer. “A few weeks.”
“And what is your relationship to the child?”
“Friend,” I say. “I’m…I’ve been helping care for her.”
“Are you related?”
“No.”
“Are you a certified caregiver?”
I shake my head. “No.”
She nods and jots something down.
“Have you ever received mental health treatment?”
The air leaves my lungs.
“That’s personal,” Finn says, stepping forward, but I stop him with a hand to his arm.
I answer because I know if I don’t, it’ll look worse. “I’ve spoken to therapists before. For anxiety. But I’ve never been hospitalized or put on medication. I’ve never been a danger to myself or anyone else.”
She hums and makes another note.
The questions keep coming.
Have you had any formal childcare training?
Have you ever been reported for neglect or endangerment?
Have you ever been the subject of a custody or guardianship dispute?
Each question is making me more and more anxious. My hands are clasped tightly in front of me. I flex each finger once, twice, then press my thumbs together. I don’t unclasp them. If I do, I might start wringing my hands or twisting my shirt, and I know how that looks.
The woman’s eyes don’t waver. “Are you currently employed?”
I hesitate. “No. I mean not outside of caring for Mae.”
“Do you contribute to the household financially?”
“No.”
Another note.
“Have you ever had thoughts of harming yourself or others?”
“No.”
“Have you ever acted on those thoughts?”
“There are no thoughts to act on.”
I answer honestly as I feel the panic crawling up the back of my neck.
Her pen finally stops moving. She lets us know that she’ll complete her report and will likely need to follow up. And then she’s gone.
The silence that follows is louder than anything else that’s come through that door this morning.
I turn fast, make it three steps toward the living room before my legs buckle. The tile is cold when I hit it.
The sound that leaves my mouth without permission is raw and cracked open, not a sound I’ve ever made before. My hands go to my face too late to stop it, and suddenly I am not in control of anything anymore.
There’s a shuddering tremble that moves through my body.
I don’t know how long I sit there, pressed to the cabinet under the sink, before someone crouches beside me.
“I have to go,” I manage to say in a whisper. “I’ll figure something out, I just?—”
I can’t finish.
I won’t be the reason they lose Mae. I can’t. I cannot be the reason that little girl is ripped from the only home she has left.
“I can’t stay here. Not if they’re going after her.” The words spill out of me fast.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Finn says from somewhere above me.
Jonah’s hand touches my arm. “We’re going to handle it. Same as we always do.”
“No,” I whisper. “You don’t understand. It’s not about me anymore. If they say I’m unstable and I’m around her, that puts all of you at risk. If anything happens?—”
Boone’s voice cuts through the kitchen.
“You’re coming with me.”
I blink up at him.
“You’ll stay at the station,” he says. “It’s secure. It’s neutral. And it buys us time.”
I want to tell him that’s not far enough. That the only way to keep everyone safe is for me to disappear entirely. But I see the look on his face, the one that doesn’t leave room for negotiation.
So I nod.
And I pack.
Again.
This time it’s just a small bag. I neatly pack three shirts, two pairs of jeans with one of Mae’s drawings tucked between them. I zip it closed with shaking hands and let Boone take it from me.
Finn waits for me in the living room. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are soft when they meet mine. He pulls me into his arms before I can speak.
“This isn’t permanent,” he says into my hair. “We’re not letting them take this any further. You have my word.”
I press my cheek to his chest, and just breathe him in for a second. “I know.”
He tips my face up with both hands and kisses me gently. It makes my throat tighten.
“Call whenever,” he murmurs. “If you even think about spiraling, I want you to call me.”
I nod and step back before I fall apart in his arms.
Jonah’s already there waiting. He watches with that steady gaze of his until I move to him. He puts his arm around me, tucking me into his side.
“We’ll keep her safe,” he says. “And we’ll fix this.”
I look at him and he must see doubt in my eyes.
“We won’t let you down, Ani. We’re not going to give up on this, I fucking swear it.”
He leans down and kisses my temple. When I step back, I think I’m holding it together okay. Then I turn and Mae’s standing there. She’s just walked in from her room and she’s still in her pajamas, fox tucked tight under one arm.
“You’re leaving again,” she says, her voice higher than usual.
I crouch in front of her. “I'm not going far.”
Her arms stay at her side and she looks like she might cry.
“I’m staying at the station with Boone,” I explain. “Just for a little while. You can call me anytime. I’ll answer every time. You know that, right?”
She doesn’t speak, but I see her bottom lip tremble.
“Mae, this isn’t forever. It’s just to make sure everyone’s okay. All of us.”
A moment passes. Then she nods, but just barely.
I press a kiss to the top of her head and stand before I can start crying. Boone’s waiting by the door.
I don’t look back when we leave.
I can’t.
Boone doesn’t say much, but he keeps a steady hand on my thigh the entire ride down.
When we arrive we walk through the firehouse, past the trucks, past the lockers, past the kitchen where someone’s left a box of cereal open on the counter.
He leads me to a room tucked in the back.
The walls are bare. The floor is cement but it’s clean.
The bed is a twin with an army green blanket on top of white sheet. There’s a lock on the door.
It isn’t home.
But it’s safe.
So, I guess it’s home for now.