Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
RACHEL
When we arrived at Frankie’s home, I was glad to see the lights on inside and a car parked out front.
Unfortunately it sometimes happened that parents were sometimes working past when kids got out of school.
Knowing there was someone home at dinner time was a relief and made me hopeful this was just a big misunderstanding.
Some kids were independent to a fault. Maybe Frankie just hadn’t mentioned what’d been going on.
I watched Frankie as we headed through the metal gate and up to the front door.
She didn’t hesitate or show any signs of fear.
She showed more fear leaving school than she did coming home, which made me hopeful that there wasn’t any abuse at home.
Kids who were being abused generally dragged their feet and made excuses to stay outside as long as possible.
Frankie opened the front door without a word, stepping back to let me pass. When Mojave followed us inside, I shot him a frown. We didn’t need him for this and I was pretty sure he’d make things worse. I was hoping to ease the family into the fact that Frankie had been following around a biker.
His expression was neutral when he pointed out, “I told her we’d ask permission for her to come back to the clubhouse.”
My frown deepened. “Yes, I remember, but–”
Before I could argue with him, a young man with short buzzed hair and a sour expression on his face came out of the hallway, coming up short when he noticed us at the door. “Who’re you?”
I wasn’t yet here on an official capacity, but I still introduced myself with my full title so if this escalated, they wouldn’t think I had lied to them to get information.
“Hello, I’m Rachel Clark. I work with family services.
I wanted to check in about Frankie. She’s come up on our radar a few times and I’m not sure you’re aware of what’s been going on. ”
The man shot a look at Frankie, annoyed. “What’d you do?”
Frankie took exception to his words, arguing, “I didn’t do nuthin’!”
“Then why’re they here?” the guy argued back. “You must’ve done somethin’.”
Putting my hands up to stop the argument, I interjected. “Frankie isn’t in any trouble. I just want to make sure everything is okay at home. Can we sit down for a minute, have a conversation?”
“Whatever,” the man grumbled, trudging over to the couch and dropping onto it. “I got work in like an hour. I gotta leave in like fifteen minutes to get there in time.”
That was what Frankie said, but it concerned me. “Is Frankie’s mother going to be home soon?”
He shrugged. “Think she’s workin’ a double.”
Something that sounded like a microwave beeping caught his attention and he pushed to his feet again, walking away while pulling out his phone, hopefully to call Frankie’s mother. I wanted to speak with them both if possible.
While he was gone, I looked around the home.
It was tiny, the living room and kitchen attached in one large space, with a hall to the left that likely led to bedrooms and bathroom.
It was a little messy, though not the worst I’d seen, with a large pile of laundry on the corner of the couch and old dishes on the worn coffee table.
What concerned me was that I saw not a single toy in either the living room or kitchen.
While it was possible that Frankie kept her toys in her room, there were usually little signs that a child lived here.
The only thing that looked like it belonged to Frankie was the backpack by the door.
Frankie’s father came back, a bowl of food in his hands that Frankie eyed curiously. He waved her off toward the kitchen. “Make your own. It’s in the pantry.”
She didn’t argue or complain, only skipped off to make her own supper, something she must’ve done a lot to be so competent at seven.
“So whaddya want?” Frankie’s father demanded, drawing my attention away from the little girl and back onto him. He wasn’t looking at me, though. He was looking at Mojave, a look of confusion on his face. “You got body guards or somethin’? Just because we’re broke don’t mean we’re criminals.”
“No one said that,” I replied quickly. “Mojave is here because–”
A car door slammed and Mojave moved me out of the way of the front door just before it flew open, an irritated woman stomping in with a scowl on her face. “This better be good, Max. I told Harold I’d work a double and he’ll dock my pay for taking a long lunch during the busy period.”
Frankie’s father, Max, jerked his chin at me and Mojave. “Family services is here. Frankie did somethin’–”
“Did not!” Frankie called from the kitchen.
I did a doubletake when I noticed her climbing onto the counter to get something and Mojave moved before I did, striding into the kitchen to stand guard and make sure she didn’t fall.
He didn’t make her get down like I would have, but he was close enough that I felt like she wouldn’t go far if she did slip.
“Who is that?” the woman—who I assumed was Frankie’s mother—demanded.
Max just shrugged. “No clue. You showed up before they could answer. Hey! Don’t touch my stuff, kid! Use your own shit!”
Confused, I looked at Frankie again. Mojave had tried to hand her a black bowl from the cabinet, but apparently she wasn’t allowed to use that one.
Frankie nudged Mojave to put it back, pointing to the tiny pink one that looked like it would be used to feed a toddler, not a seven year old girl.
Before I could even wrap my head around that, Frankie’s mom spoke again. “Well? Who are you people?”
Clearing my throat, I gave her my attention, introducing myself again. “My name is Rachel Clark. I work for family services. I was hoping I could have a minute of your time to talk. I’ve noticed some concerning things and I want to address them with you.”
Making an irritated tick sound, the woman stormed around me, dropping onto the chair off to one side instead of on the seat beside her husband.
It forced me to stand to talk to them, but I chose not to comment on that.
I could already tell my presence wasn’t a welcome one.
Neither showed any concern that I was here.
They only showed irritation at my presence.
Taking in a deep breath, I let it out, forcing myself to smile and soften my voice. I couldn’t lose my professionalism every time a parent wasn’t happy to see me. I was here for Frankie. That was it.
“Thank you for meeting with me. I wanted to discuss some concerning behaviors I’ve noticed about Frankie.”
“Yeah? Like what?” the woman demanded with a scowl, arms crossed tightly across her chest. She was defensive already, which wasn’t a good sign.
“Well, Frankie was first brought to my attention because she was wandering around alone and–”
“Yeah, so?” Max grouched. “She’s a kid. Was she doin’ somethin’ illegal?”
“Well, no, but–”
“Then it don’t matter. She’s a kid. Kids play outside. It’s whatever,” he snapped.
I fought off a scowl of my own, keeping my tone even. “It’s not whatever. Frankie has taken to following strangers and that can be dangerous.”
The woman’s gaze shot to Mojave. “You talkin’ about him? If he’s dangerous then why is he here?”
“He’s not,” I answered quickly. “But surely you can see how unsafe it is for children to wander unsupervised. Had it been anyone else–”
Making a tick sound, Max leaned forward, calling, “Frankie!”
Frankie had been sitting on the counter with the bowl of microwaved mac and cheese in her lap.
She handed it off to Mojave, hopping down and striding into the room.
Again, she had no fear or hesitation in her movements, so I didn’t think she was being abused, but the fact that her parents didn't seem to care where she went was concerning.
“Yeah?”
“Are you stupid?” her father asked bluntly.
Frankie’s brows snapped together. “No!”
“Mr. Smythe–” I began, but he cut me off, his attention still on Frankie.
“Do you know who to avoid on the street?”
Frankie nodded, rocking on her heels. “Bad men, people offerin’ candy, and tweakers.”
My head jerked back in surprise, my eyes blinking rapidly. That wasn’t at all what I had been referring to, and honestly, it set off alarms that she even knew that word. What were these people teaching her?
Mrs. Smythe turned her attention to Mojave, eyes narrowed. “You a pervert or somethin’? Why are you hangin’ out with a little kid?”
Mojave’s cold expression was unwavering when he replied, “I’ve been walkin’ her home. It’s not safe to wander around after dark.”
The woman turned her attention to me, raising an eyebrow. “So he’s not dangerous, he’s not a pervert, and he brings her home. What’s the problem?”
The horror that comment struck was enough to leave me speechless. Mrs. Smythe raised her eyebrows at me, looking more and more irritated that I was here. “Well?”
“The concern isn’t Mojave,” I tried again, hoping to get through to them. “My concern is that Frankie is wandering around for hours unsupervised on a regular basis.”
“We’re working,” Max insisted with a scowl. “What? You want us to quit our jobs?”
“Are you going to pay our bills?” Mrs. Smythe added with a raised eyebrow.
“Mrs. Smythe, I’m sure you can understand why I’m concerned–” I began, but she interrupted before I could finish.
“No, I don’t understand. We’re working all hours to keep a roof over her head.
She’s got clothes, food, and a bed to sleep in.
She’s not gettin’ into trouble or stealin’ or whatever shit kids get up to these days.
She’s just followin’ someone around—someone you yourself said was safe. What else do you want?”
It wasn’t often that I was left stunned by a parent’s speech.
I’d thought I heard it all; Corporal punishment was good discipline.
Older children were supposed to help with the younger ones.
Chores came before school because they needed to make ends meet.
But I’d never heard parents so indifferent about their daughter’s behavior.
They barely asked anything about Mojave, despite Frankie following him around for days now.
They didn't care what time she came home, who she spent time with, or what she was doing during the day.
It made me wonder how much they truly knew about their daughter.
This was much worse than I’d originally thought. They might be feeding her and keeping a roof over her head, but the emotional neglect was so bad, it was no wonder Frankie never wanted to come home.
Mojave’s hand settled on my shoulder, a dark look on his face that I’d never seen on him before.
His attention was on the parents, and I worried for a moment he’d try to step in and argue with them.
It wasn’t his place. I was going to officially make this a family services problem and if a biker got involved–
“Frankie shouldn’t be alone after school. There’re kids at the clubhouse she can play with. Can I pick her up and bring her home at supper time?”
That hadn’t been what I expected, nor Frankie’s parents if their confused expressions were anything to go by. Mrs. Smythe recovered first, shrugging her thin shoulders with a scowl. “Whatever. I’m not going to say no to free babysitting.”
“Why the hell does a biker club have kids?” Max asked, making me hope for just a moment that he actually cared enough to ask that question.
“Other guys in the club have kids,” Mojave replied simply.
Max snorted, leaning back into the couch with a shake of his head. “Some biker club. I gotta go. I got work. The kid is fine.”
That hope died a quick death and I felt my heart sink as both parents started gathering their things to leave. That Frankie looked so unbothered by it all, not even watching as they headed out the door was especially concerning. She was used to being alone. The idea was heartbreaking.