9. Chapter 9
Raffe followed the old sedan for three miles, keeping just far enough back that Mia wouldn’t notice him in her rearview mirror. He was ready to follow her onto the highway when his cell phone rang. The display lit up with a name he knew too well. Jenny, Jeremy’s caseworker.
He tapped the button. “What’s up, Jenny?”
“The police picked Freddy up last night,” she announced, her voice tight with fatigue.
Raffe’s grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened. His jaw locked. “What did he do?” Freddy was in a wheelchair. How much harm could a kid in a chair really do?
Jenny sighed, and he could almost see her pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back her frustration. “He stole food from the convenience store two blocks from his foster mom’s house.”
Raffe’s chest constricted. Food. Of course it was food.
“Kid’s got straight A’s, never mouths off to a teacher, helps the younger ones with their homework,” Jenny continued softly.
“And then he’s stealing potato chips and beef jerky because his foster mom ‘forgets’ to feed them dinner half the time.
” Her voice thickened, and Raffe knew if she wasn’t so damn tough, she’d be sobbing right then.
“Damn it,” he muttered, running a hand over his jaw. Freddy didn’t even like junk food. Raffe had watched him push away candy bars, saying he preferred apples or yogurt. The boy wasn’t looking for a thrill. He was hungry.
Jenny pushed on, her voice steadier now.
“A little birdy told the judge about Freddy’s home life,” she added, and this time Raffe heard the faint smile in her voice.
He knew who that bird was. Jenny had whispered in the correct ear, planting just enough information.
“The judge wants to see Jim and Katy Fuller in his courtroom.”
“When?” Raffe asked sharply, narrowing his eyes as he saw the sedan up ahead slow down.
Why was she turning? He tracked the car’s indicator.
A fried chicken joint. His frown deepened.
Fried chicken for the frail old woman? What she needed was fresh vegetables, lean protein—hell, even a bowl of soup would’ve been better than so much grease.
But what the hell did he know about senior nutrition? He was a field agent, not a dietician.
“In an hour,” Jenny replied.
Raffe swore under his breath, low enough that he hoped she wouldn’t hear.
“I heard that,” Jenny muttered, a tired laugh coloring her voice. She probably cursed the same way when another child-in-crisis phone call came in at midnight.
“I’ll be there,” Raffe promised, grateful that he’d bothered to wear a clean T-shirt to his own wedding. Then, almost offhandedly, he added, “I got married this morning.”
The silence on the other end stretched, and he could almost feel her disbelief…
and then, faintly, something like hope. “That will help,” she finally said, her voice quieter now, as if afraid to lean too heavily on the fragile rope of optimism.
“I’ve already put the paperwork through for your emergency foster care approval. ”
“Good.” He rubbed at the tightness in his forehead, trying to balance the thousand problems knotted together in his life. His undercover case. His new “wife.” And Freddy—the one problem he actually wanted to solve. Freddy, who deserved so much more than the hand life had dealt him.
“I’m on my way to the courthouse. Send me the courtroom details,” he said firmly, “and let the judge know there’s another option on the table. He doesn’t have to send Freddy back to that…house.”
Jenny hesitated, then asked, “Should I let him know what you do for a living?”
“Definitely not. There can’t be any record of me on the Minneapolis books.” He didn’t add the truth—that his role on the organized crime task force was deep undercover. If that came out, it would blow everything. “I’ll be there.”
“I’m on my way too,” Jenny said. “I’ll have a quiet word with the judge before the hearing.”
“Thanks.” His voice softened. “And, if you can, assure Freddy that I’m there. He needs to know someone’s fighting for him.”
“You know I will,” she replied, her words brightening just enough to remind him of the steel spine that had kept her from burning out long ago.
He knew the heavy burden she carried. Every case was a heartbreak, a choice between two or three bad options.
Freddy wasn’t even the worst story on her caseload, but he was the kind that gnawed at you—the bright ones, the hopeful ones, the kids who still believed life could get better if someone just gave a damn.
And damn it, Raffe did.