The area was so gray, dirty, and smelly that it was almost as if the clear spring day had evaporated. Between two cement buildings, there wasn’t much sunlight, and I couldn’t help shivering. Kenna kicked a can as we passed the first dumpster, startling a thin, scruffy man leaning against a wall. He jumped more than we did when we saw each other.
“Hi,” I said, nonchalant.
“Got a light?” Kenna asked.
He looked confused but nodded and reached into his pocket.
Without a word, he held out a lighter and flicked it.
Kenna held out her smoke and then took a long drag, squinting as she did. “Thanks,” she mumbled over it.
“Y’all shouldn’t be back here,” the guy said.
“We’re fine,” I said. “The police are out front. Had to get away from that for a minute.”
“I saw. What’s going on?” His shoulders sagged as he relaxed against the graffiti-covered wall again, and I noticed track marks on his arms. He also had scabs in various stages of healing, and his teeth were brown.
“Some dude got shot,” Kenna said. “They’re taking him out in an ambulance.”
“Oh, shit. For real?”
“Yup.”
“Hey, you guys got any spare change? I’m short this week, and I got a kid to feed.”
He looked like a kid himself, or close, probably not even twenty.
“Sure,” I said, pulling out a ten but not handing it over yet. “Hey, can you tell us where we can find Daddy B? We need to hook up with him.”
He smirked. “Everyone knows Daddy B. He’ll be around. Try tonight.”
He held out his hand, and I passed him the ten. “Like when? How late?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “Late. Lotta people hang out back here. Ask around. You’ll find him.”
“How old’s your kid?” Kenna asked.
“Eighteen months. She stays with my mom.” He pulled a wrinkled photo from his jeans and held it out. “Friggin’ cute, right?”
“The cutest,” Kenna said, while I smiled in agreement.
Unfortunately, I didn’t think the ten dollars would go to the little girl, and I wished I could give him hand-me-down clothes and toys instead.
I nudged Kenna. “We gotta go.” I looked at the young father. “Good luck. See you around.”
Kenna and I commiserated and plotted while walking back to the car. It wasn’t feasible to return at night together. One of us needed to stay home while the kids slept. Also, we didn’t want to confront Daddy B yet. It was unlikely he’d tell us anything about Kat, and it could put her at risk. Instead, we wanted to follow him. But there wasn’t a car registered to his name, and we wondered if that meant our only option was surveillance on foot.
“Could Dean help?” Kenna asked. “I can stay home, and if the kids would rather be at your house, we can go there. It won’t matter to Sky.”
Sky was one of those miracle kids who could conk out anywhere and stay asleep all night. I was happy for Kenna and envious too. It had taken Jack and Sophie years to sleep solo.
“Okay. I can ask him. Maybe he can bring a friend so we can work in teams. We can’t get spotted, and I don’t want to work alone. I wouldn’t be surprised if Daddy B is armed.”
“Dean doesn’t carry, does he?”
“No.”
Neither did I. I didn’t want a weapon turned on me, and I wouldn’t be comfortable storing one at home. But I liked it when armed professionals were around. Maybe someday I’d resolve my confusion.
“Text Dean and see if he’s available.”
I obeyed Kenna and typed.
Hey, hope you’re having a good day. Got plans for tonight? I have A LOT to tell you. Also, could use some help with surveillance around The Crest apartments, maybe from you and one of your coworkers. Don’t worry if you’re busy. Kenna will watch the kids, and I promise I won’t go alone.
Giving a test right now, Dean replied. I can help tonight. Still looking for Daddy B?
Yes, I said. Him and whatever hole he crawls out of.
Got it. I’ll text you when I get a break.
After changing into our scrubs in case we were contaminated with Jared’s blood (and wishing we’d worn them earlier), we took a quick drive around the neighborhood and chose a bar where Dean and I could park and start surveillance later. Then we stopped at home to truly decontaminate.
Kenna was scheduled to teach a class before Andy left for work, and although I encouraged her to cancel, she insisted it was stress relief for her. She tried to talk me into going, but I insisted it was stress inducing for me. Also, the King County Department of Child and Family Services was hosting an information session about foster parenting that afternoon, and it was an opportunity I couldn’t miss. Even if I couldn’t learn anything about Kat or her foster family, I wanted to understand more about foster families in general.
Child and Family Services was housed in a large, modern office building that must have been reassuring yet intimidating to many of its guests. Marble floors led to a large front desk, where I signed in and received a visitor’s badge. I took a slick elevator to the fourth floor and approached a kind-looking receptionist with a chestnut pixie cut and matching brown eyes.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m here for the foster parent orientation meeting.”
“Great,” she said. “It’s down the hall on the left. Room 403. See the sign?”
I thanked her and found the room, along with another sign-in sheet on a table by the door.
“Welcome,” said a thin woman with a gray bob and bright red glasses. “I’m Annie. Come on in.”
I introduced myself and chose a seat near the back of the room. I wanted potential foster parents to have the best view of a presentation screen hanging from the ceiling. While waiting for others to arrive, I glanced around, curious about every attendee. There were three women and two couples, and at the last minute, a middle-aged man took a front-row seat. Several staff members joined Annie for their parts of the session, and one introduced herself as Francine, which was Kat’s original social worker’s name, according to Corey.
“Good afternoon,” Annie began. “Thank you all for coming. There are over three hundred children in King County’s foster care system, and many more who need foster homes. Foster children often feel lost, afraid, powerless, and more—and they deserve safe, stable, loving homes. We work hard to reunite foster children with their birth families, but when that’s not possible, we seek adoption or permanent placement.”
She clicked to a new slide and let other social workers do their parts. As we watched a video featuring former foster children, I blinked back tears and eventually dried them with my shirtsleeve. Their stories were complex, raw, and difficult, and yet the video provided a sense of hope.
The social workers’ words were similarly straightforward, optimistic, and anything but sugarcoated.
At the end, Annie encouraged questions while distributing handouts.
“Are siblings always kept together?” a man in front of me asked.
“We do our best to accomplish that,” she said. “If they’re separated, we work hard to maintain their relationship.”
Jack and Sophie came to mind, and the thought of siblings being separated was heartbreaking.
“Can a gay man who’s single become a foster parent?” another man asked.
“Certainly,” Francine said. She restated the requirements for becoming a foster parent and emphasized the in-depth process that precedes approval.
A young woman raised her hand and asked whether many infants were placed in foster care.
“In King County, most foster children are preteens or older. But we do place children of all ages, including infants.”
When it seemed like no one else had questions, I spoke up.
“Speaking of teens, what happens
when a foster child turns eighteen?”
“We have incredible resources for children who are transitioning from foster care to independence. We do everything we can to support them. We included some information about that in our handouts.”
The social workers wrapped things up by talking individually with anyone who had more questions. A couple cornered Francine while I checked my phone for messages, emails, and social media posts potentially related to Kat. Seeing nothing urgent, I stood and approached Francine, who was saying goodbye to the couple while gathering her notes.
“Hi, I’m Nicki,” I said, shaking her hand. “I’m actually here for an unusual reason.” I briefly explained my role in Kat’s case without using any names.
“I can’t discuss any specific foster children or families,” she said, looking slightly concerned. “I’m sorry.”
“I completely understand,” I said. “I came today because I want to put myself in each family’s shoes as best as possible.” And to see how much I can learn without compromising your integrity or mine.
“Well, let’s chat while we’re cleaning up, but then I’m afraid I have to go. My day is packed.”
“Mine too. Thank you.” I set down my purse and followed her to the back of the room, where juice and cookies went mostly untouched. To their credit, the social workers had captured the audience’s full attention.
“I know you can’t use names,” I said. “But this case is in the Crescent Heights area, and I’m so worried about the teen. I think she may have been lured in by some bad people.”
Francine focused on lifting water bottles into a cabinet while I slid trays of cookies back into their packages.
“Crescent Heights is a risky area,” she said carefully. “And it’s not unusual for teens to think they can manage independently, even in dangerous situations. It’s incredibly sad because we offer so much support during their transition into adulthood.”
“So if we find this teen, she’s still eligible for services?”
“I hope so,” Francine said. “But there’s a caveat.” She looked at me. “Once a child leaves foster care, they only have sixty days to return to the program for certain services. Has it been sixty days yet?”
“No, not yet.”
My hopes and anxieties rose at the same time. Time was ticking away for Kat in ways I hadn’t expected, and as far as I knew, Kenna and I were the only ones racing against the clock.
Eight
Dean came over for a hastily prepared vegetarian dinner as usual. Cooking wasn’t my forte or his. The only outspoken opponent was Sophie, who had a taste for complex entrées and flavors. I’d already arranged for a summer cooking camp and hoped she’d bring home leftovers.
“Why are we going to Sky’s again?” Jack asked. “Are you guys going on a date or something?”
Sophie’s eyes lit up. “Are you dressing up, Mommy? Can I help?”
On the rare occasions Dean and I went somewhere special, I let Sophie help me prepare, meaning I preselected two outfits and let her pick one. I also let her powder my nose, the lowest-risk “help” I could think of.
“No, sweetie,” I said too quickly. Then I looked at Dean and shrugged. “Well, actually, it is kind of a date.”
That was our pretext. We’d walk the streets together if necessary, and his PI friend Sean would be nearby in case we needed another set of eyes. Or balls. After that morning, I was a little nervous about hanging out near Crescent Heights.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “We’ll probably get some dessert.”
Oops. Poor choice of words. I knew what was next.
“Can I have dessert too?” Sophie asked.
“I’m sure you’ll have dessert at Kenna’s,” I said.
She smiled in anticipation and couldn’t argue. “Just a piece of gum then?”
“After dinner,” I told my little negotiator. “You too, Jack.”
“These aren’t dressy or pretty,” Sophie complained while chomping gum and assessing jeans and casual shirts I’d laid out on my bed. Dean had arrived in a similar outfit, which of course looked swoon-worthy on him. In my experience, it wasn’t possible for him to look bad.
“We’re not going anywhere dressy,” I explained. “And we have work to do, so I need to fit in with what other people are wearing.” I thought for a moment. “Kind of like how you wouldn’t wear your princess dress to school.”
“I would wear it, but you won’t let me.”
“True, sweetie. But I don’t think the school would let you either. If kids wore costumes to school, it might be hard to concentrate on schoolwork.” I paused, weighing the importance of self-expression and academics. Then I refocused myself. “So should I wear the blue shirt or the black one?” I hoped dark colors would help me blend in on the streets.
“Black. With those jeans.” Leave it to Sophie. She’d one-upped me by combining the outfits. “And can you wear earrings?”
I dug into my jewelry organizer for the least sparkly ones I could find.
“How about these?” I asked, showing her a pair of fake, black pearls.
“Good,” she said. “Put those on.”
I did, thinking one more set of balls couldn’t hurt.
We took two cars in case we ended up doing mobile surveillance, and I found myself looking forward to time alone with Dean, even if we were working. We brought mini walkie-talkies (as a three-way verbal link with Sean), simple disguises (hats, glasses, scarves, and a ponytail holder for me), and freshly downloaded GPS apps that would let us track each other’s phones if needed.
It had been a while since I’d done foot surveillance, so I reviewed a few tips before leaving. At the forefront of my mind was “Avoid walking in front of the target.” It could make the PI too memorable. Dean had sweetly teased that was especially true for me. I’d conceded that, for better or worse, my rear was notable. In my research, I’d seen cool PI sunglasses with interior mirrors for “eyes in the back of your head,” which I’d almost ordered for parenting.
After stopping at a bar to meet Sean and have a late-night snack, Dean and I parked separately on either side of the apartment’s alley, hoping to see Daddy B or, by some miracle, Kat. I locked the van doors, moved to the back row, and dimmed my phone. Then, with Dean on speaker for immediate contact, I positioned myself to see anyone leaving or entering the area. The van’s tinted windows and nap-friendly shades helped.
“I’m all set,” I told Dean quietly. “How ’bout you?”
“I got a space across the street from the alley. When I pulled up, I saw a few guys down there. I couldn’t tell if he was one of them. It’s only eleven, so let’s give it an hour, and if we don’t see him, we’ll take a walk or Sean will come by.”
That hour could have been incredibly boring, but it gave Dean and me an uninterrupted chance to talk (rare for a single mom of two) until a bark next to the van startled me.
“No way,” I whispered to Dean. “This guy’s walking up with a dog, and he looks like Daddy B. The guy, I mean.”
“What kind of dog does he have?”
“I don’t know.” I lifted my camera, ensured the flash was off, and snapped a few low-light photos. “It’s medium-sized. I think it’s a mutt.” I hoped that wasn’t an offensive term to dogs.
“Is it on a leash?”
“Yeah. The guy has a frizzy, black ponytail, and he’s skinny, just like the motel owner said. I can’t see his face though. He’s turning into the alley.”
Using an app, I transferred a photo to my phone and texted it to Dean. Knowing him, he already had a video camera or telephoto lens out.
“I’m so relieved,” I said. “I know that guy said he’d be here, but still.”
“It’s him,” Dean confirmed. “We gotta figure out how to follow him. That dog could make it tough. It’ll probably be more aware of us than anyone.”
/> “Good point,” I said. “But then again, maybe Daddy B will be distracted by it and less likely to notice us.”
Dean texted Sean an update, and we kept watch while Dean took video of Daddy B, who quickly moved between the alley’s dumpsters.
Surveillance with multiple PIs was a luxury, and I was thankful Dean had recruited his good buddy’s help. Even working with one partner offered flexibility and cover I couldn’t refuse.
“Sean’s on his way,” Dean said. “He’ll follow Daddy B on foot when we see him leave, and we can catch up. He’s got us on a group text.”
“Perfect.” That was the nice (and endlessly aggravating) thing about modern technology. No one suspected anything if you walked with your head down, texting and appearing oblivious. Cell phone distraction was one of my biggest pet peeves and easiest pretexts.
“Daddy B’s on the move toward you,” Dean said a few minutes later. “Sean’s gonna walk up from behind your van to follow him.”
I ducked low and heard soft beeps as my phone alerted me to Dean and Sean’s texts.
From behind Sophie’s seat, I watched Daddy B and his dog turn out of the alley and away from me. Soon after, Sean followed, walking casually without a glance in my direction. He tipped back what looked like a beer bottle, but for all I knew it was a video camera. Dean’s friends had some cool spy gear I couldn’t afford.
Once Daddy B and Sean turned a corner out of sight, Dean and I hopped out and met one block in the opposite direction, which put us in front of the apartment building. It wasn’t logical for me to venture out alone, so we held hands and moseyed in Daddy B’s general direction, peering down the alley, which appeared empty, although we suspected people were between the dumpsters.
The night was cool, and when I shivered, Dean put an arm around me and kissed my head. I momentarily wished we could go back to the bar, grab some drinks, and let the world fade away. No matter what, I’d be convincing as a starry-eyed date. And if we needed to amp up the pretext, I could plant some smooches and assure everyone I only had eyes for Dean.
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