Teresa sat for a moment with her cell phone still stuck to her ear. When it rains, it pours. Why was she the one who answered that call from Gracie Reitman? It could have been anyone at the agency. Now what a mess she’d landed herself into. “I’m still dreaming, yes?” she mumbled to herself. But it was no dream. She put down her phone and shook herself mentally. She was stunned, but finally alert. “Great!” she said, turning to Charles for sympathy. But the fastidious cat was nowhere to be seen. “Traitor.” She slid off the bed and headed down the hall to the bathroom. “And you better have all that popcorn eaten off the floor by the time I get back!”
—
The downtown police station was busier than it should have been, given that it was in the middle of the night, and a Tuesday. Sergeant Todd Bench was the lucky officer on duty, and supervising the station business. He normally enjoyed the night shift during the week. It was usually a lot less hectic . . . usually. But tonight had seen some interesting events, and that meant more paper work—lots of it. He had even called in another officer to help out.
Bench was sitting at his desk, sifting through his tall stack like a forklift on a haystack, when the buzzer went off. He immediately glanced up and spotted an attractive young blonde lady standing in the lobby beyond the glass. She was dressed very professionally, which was a dead giveaway that she was either a lawyer or social worker. He stood and moved to the intercom. As he did, the woman caught sight of him and smiled. She held up her ID.
“Can I help you?” he spoke through the microphone as politely as he could—it was late, he was tired.
“Hi, yes. I’m Teresa Henington from the DCFS.”
“Family Services?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“Ah. You’re here because of those two runaways we picked up tonight, huh?” He smiled, as if proud that he had assumed correctly.
Teresa returned his smile and nodded. “Can I see them?”
“Of course, Mrs. Henington. I’ll buzz you through.”
“It’s Miss Henington,” she corrected, politely. Why did these things make her feel awkward? Her mother’s gold band was on her right hand. The buzzer went off and she gave the handle a brisk pull.
Sergeant Bench greeted her with a brisk handshake the instant she stepped into the office area. “Sorry about the late hour. But I suppose you’re used to it.” He whirled almost immediately and headed down the hallway, mumbling away as if to himself.
Teresa stepped up to catch him. He did want her to follow?
“We put them in one of the interrogation rooms,” he said, looking over his shoulder.
Teresa’s face frowned.
“Don’t worry. It sounds worse than it is. The room is more like a conference area. They are larger, and”—he paused—“well, a little less intimidating. They were pretty shook up, especially the boy.” He finally stopped in front of a thick door with a large glass window in the center top. “Here we are.” He reached for the latch, then hesitated a moment. “Miss Henington. I’ve seen a lot of runaways come in and out of here. Most of them already have records and are carrying a lot of unwanted baggage. But these kids,” he gestured through the glass, “they are good kids. See what you can do, huh?”
Teresa nodded warmly. “They are good kids, Officer Bench. And,” she said with a tap to her briefcase, “very, very lucky kids, as it turns out.”
Teresa could clearly observe a timid, frightened girl through the glass. She had her arm wrapped tightly around a much smaller boy, who—at first glance—seemed to have his head buried against the girls shoulder. Her long dark hair had been pulled aside, and her cheek was resting against the boy’s equally dark curls.
The opening of the door was like sending an electric current through each child. They lurched, stiffened and sat immediately upright.
“It’s alright,” Teresa spoke as she stepped in. She smiled warmly, eyeing one, then the other.
“Do you want me to accompany you?” Officer Bench asked, holding the door open.
“Oh no,” she replied, excusing him with a gesture of appreciation. “We’ll be fine.”
He nodded, ogled the two fugitives, then shut the door with a click.
Teresa extended her hand. “Hello. You’ve probably already guessed, but I’m from the DCFS.”
Jessie glanced up long enough to manage an obligatory grin, and shook the woman’s hand briefly. “Yeah. That’s pretty obvious.” Her gaze moved back to the floor.
The boy’s eyes bounced up just briefly—long enough for Teresa to see that they were swollen with emotion. He continued clinging to his sister as though his life depended on it.
“You must be Sam,” she said as pleasantly as she could, shifting her attention, and hand, to the child.
A subtle nod was all she got back. But it was enough.
“My name is Teresa Henington. You can call me Teresa.” She placed her briefcase on a small table and clicked the latch. She leaned over, flipped her bangs from her view and dredged around in the case until she found the folder she was looking for. She edged in closer, then opted to sit in the chair opposite the kids. Teresa crossed her legs gracefully and opened the file. Several papers slid from within and spilled out onto the floor. She clicked her tongue and started to bend over. But before she could, a small figure suddenly jumped from his seat and hurried to retrieve them.
Sam’s action came as a complete surprise. He placed the documents on her lap and returned to his seat as naturally as one turns off a light or shuts a door. It was a mechanical action. Done simply because it was the polite response.
Teresa was impressed. “Thank you, Sam,” she said.
Diane was not as meticulous with her records and documents as was Teresa. The folders were thick with creased and wadded up documents. This is all I’ve got, Diane had said through her opened car window. She had been waiting for Teresa, parked out front of the police station—obviously not wanting to be seen with her hair disheveled and with no makeup. With a hurried good luck, the woman had placed the file in Teresa’s hand and drove off. Teresa had remained at the curb, mouth open and dumbfounded, before bolstering her courage and heading in to the station.
The file contained—among other things—several pages of history on the two kids. Teresa had already perused through the information the agency had given her on Jessie and Sam Goodwin, just days before. She had done this when the Reitman woman contacted her. And if there was one thing to be said of Teresa Henington, it was that she was thorough in her preparation. She knew more about the two kids than anyone else at that moment. At least that’s what she thought. But she was very wrong.
“Pretty stupid. I know that’s what you want to say. I’ll save you the trouble.” Jessie’s voice came shaky and unexpected. She looked blanched and drawn to near exhaustion.
Teresa sighed. “Jessie. What were you thinking?”
“Thinking? I was thinking of my brother, obviously,” she retorted, sarcastically. Then, feeling the sting in her tone, paused. “Sorry.”
“I’ve contacted the agency’s attorney, but he’s out of town. So—”
“I don’t need an attorney,” Jessie spouted. “I need someone to protect my brother! The Staples were mistreating him! They were abusing him. I had to get him out of there.”
Teresa noted the emotion welling up in the girl. “There are other avenues, Jessie.”
“Really? What avenues! You can check the phone records. I’ve called the agency a dozen times. They just blew me off. What would you have done?”
Teresa didn’t answer. She tried to appear composed—that was the professional thing to do. But the girl’s desperate appearance and direct question brought her own brother, Bobby, to mind. She suddenly realized, with some irony, that Bobby was also her younger brother, only sibling, and differed in the same span of years as did Sam from Jessie. The epiphany hit home in a sobering, personal manner.
“Legally, I can’t give you any advice; nor can I condone what you’ve done. Bu
t I can help you. I want to help you.”
Jessie made a mocking grunt. “Right. Heard that one about a billion times. I suppose you’ll help me by sending Sam back to the Staples and me to Juvi.”
“No.” Teresa eyed the girl intently. She removed a different set of papers. “This may just be the luckiest day of your life.” Her eyebrows rose inquisitively. “I have some rather remarkable information to share with you. We were going to wait until next week—pending the validity of this material. But according to our legal team, it’s all legit, so I’m going to fill you in on some pretty amazing stuff. Can you handle it?”
Now this is a new ploy, thought Jessie. But why not let the woman have her moment. “Sure. Why not,” she shrugged.
“You have a relative,” Teresa began, eyes moving from paper to faces. “Through adoption, but a lawful relative all the same. In fact. A very, very prominent relative.” Teresa’s gaze was solid, her demeanor absolute.
“You’re kidding, right?” Jessie heard herself say.
Teresa didn’t bandy the remark. She didn’t need to. Her gaze said it all. “Did you know your grandfather?”
Jessie nearly laughed. “I don’t have a grandfather.” She turned to Sam. “We don’t have a grandfather.”
Sam’s head finally came up. It seemed the boy’s ears were working after all.
“Oh but you did, Jessie. On your mother’s side. Her father, actually. We have the DNA to prove it. Trust me, I wouldn’t make such a claim unless the information was absolute. His name was Tom Toone, and he is the one responsible for finding you . . . just months ago, in fact.”
“Wait a minute. Why are you talking about him in past-tense?”
Teresa hesitated, and her expression fell. “Sharp girl. I’m sorry to tell you that Tom Toone passed away. Very recently.”
Typical! thought Jessie. Build us up just so you can knock us back down. “Then why are we having this conversation? What good does it do us to know we had a grandfather—our only relative—if the man is dead? We’re right back where we started . . . homeless. It’s unfair, and it’s wrong!”
“Your grandfather is not the relative I’m referring to.”
Jessie’s face crinkled up in a strange, curious gaze. “What?”
Your grandfather was also adopted. And his adopted mother is still alive. She contacted us.”
“His mother? What, is she a hundred?”
“No,” replied Teresa, her tone professional and calm. “Your grandfather was just a kid when your mother, Julie, was born. And from what we gathered, he didn’t even know that his girlfriend—your grandmother—was pregnant. He wasn’t that old, Jessie. Tom Toone died in an accident, not from old age.”
“I . . .” Jessie stuttered, “I didn’t mean to sound so heartless. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“So can you tell me about this woman? My great-grandmother?” she asked.
Teresa nodded. “Absolutely.” She shuffled through some more papers. “Mrs. Gracie Reitman is eighty-two years old. She is well aware of her age, and her abilities; especially where two young children are concerned. She has made it very clear that her involvement is a temporary one. She is to be your steward only until a good family can be found who can adopt both you, together. No more foster care.”
Jessie felt numb. She didn’t know whether it was excitement or shock. It was great news, wasn’t it? But then in her mind’s eye—the sour grape in the sweet cluster—she saw a tiny dilapidated house sitting somewhere in an old avenue neighborhood. She envisioned stale odors, pealing wallpaper, furniture embellished in knitted coverings, high ceilings, small rooms—none of it seemed appealing. Yet, she told herself, pushing all that aside. If it meant being together with her brother, and no more foster care, she’d live in a cardboard box and be happy. “That’s amazing,” she managed. “I’m sure Sam and I can help her out. I might even be able to get a job and help pay for some of the expense.”
Teresa smiled mysteriously. “Yes . . . help her out,” she toned oddly. “That’s nice of you to make such an offer, Jess . . .” she hesitated. “Have you ever heard of the Sandcastle?”
Jessie pondered a moment. It did sound familiar, but she couldn’t remember why? Then it came to her. She recalled the word because the memory was attached to a recent event she had had in one of her classes at school. An unpleasant event, unfortunately.
Two of her classmates had been chatting during Mr. Jacobson’s lecture on American historical buildings of the eighteen-century. His discourse had meandered beyond the subject—like usual—landing right in the middle of famous castles . . . was it England or France? She couldn’t remember now. But she did remember that right in the middle of Mr. Jacobson’s melodramatic reenactment of siege and warfare of the medieval era, a tap came on her shoulder from Andrea—an annoying chatter-box that sat directly behind her. Jessie had only turned for a moment . . . just long enough to hear: Hey. Have you ever driven out to the desert and seen that huge estate? The one they call Sandcastle?
No! She responded. Then she turned forward again, trying to ignore the voice still whispering at her back.
You ought to drive out there sometime . . . especially at night. That’s what I did with my boyfriend. It’s really spooky! You can see its lights from—
And that’s when Mr. Jacobson’s voice cut in: Jessie and Andrea can stay after class and review my notes at that time. They’re too busy chatting to pay attention right now.
Jessie had wanted to throttle Andrea! But after school, while sitting there in Mr. Jacobson’s class, he had actually talked up a storm—yes, it was off the subject, again—about this famous landmark: Utah’s own reclusive Sandcastle. And surprisingly, Jessie had been quite intrigued. She only remembered bits and pieces of Mr. Jacobson’s pedantic discourse—something about a magnificent manor out in the middle of the desert, made famous because of its size, odd location and architecture . . .
“Yes,” Jessie replied, almost hesitantly. Where on earth is this going?
Teresa chuckled. “That’s the place.”
Jessie took in the statement with nothing more than a subtle rise of her thick eyebrows. Her rational deflected the words like a bullet to metal. She blinked, and waited for Teresa’s, just kidding. But it didn’t come. “I don’t understand,” she said, finally.
Teresa didn’t flinch.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not. Gracie Reitman is one of the wealthiest women in the world. But that fact is not commonly known. And Mrs. Reitman is adamant about keeping it that way. The family is very influential here in Utah, as you may, or may not know. They have been extremely generous to the State.” Teresa glanced through some more documentation. “There is so much more here, Jessie. There’s really no way to convey it all to you now.”
Jessie felt numb all over. Was this what it felt like to be in shock? she wondered. She couldn’t really talk. There were too many words trying to jump into line. But no. This simply had to be a mistake.
“How do you feel, Jess?”
How did she feel? This strange lady—yeah, she seemed savvy—had just appeared from nowhere. She had delivered a bombshell and then sat back silent as though to watch the aftermath! Was this some kind of joke? Was there information that this Teresa woman was trying to root-out by coming up with such a ridiculous story? Did she have some career-enhancing agenda?
“I know this is a lot of information for you and Sam to digest—”
“Ya think!” Jessie exclaimed, suddenly. “How do I know you’re on the level? I mean . . . we’ve been lied to so many times.”
“It’s the truth Jess. I think you know I’m telling you the truth.”
Jessie turned away for moment. Crap! Yeah . . . she knew.
“I’ve already contacted Mrs. Reitman,” Teresa continued, “on the way here actually, and updated her on your situation. She was more than eager to help out. I told her that we would handle things for now, and that I would get ba
ck to her once I had talked to the two of you. I just need your approbation, Jess.”
“My what?”
“Sorry. Your approval.”
Jessie swallowed. She turned to Sam. “What do you think, bro?”
Sam—who had been surprisingly silent during most of the discussion—managed a simple, “Okay, I guess. I just don’t want to stay here, Jessie.”
Jessie smiled and gave him a squeeze. Her brain was going full speed but her body felt drained.
“You can say no,” Teresa added, detecting the debate going on in the girl’s head. “But I would not recommend it.”
Jessie hesitated for just another moment. Then she shrugged. “Alright. We’ll bite for now” she replied. “But I’m still thinking that someone has made a big identity mistake here.”
Teresa nodded, allowing a smidgen of relief to escape her expression. “Fair enough. Now, understand, Jessie that you’re not off the hook. We can bail you out tonight, but you will have to answer for what you’ve done. There will be a court date set. The law requires this.”
Sam turned a worried look on his sister and pulled-in closer to her.
Jessie nodded. “I understand.”
A sudden knock on the heavy door caused Teresa to turn abruptly. She peered out through the glass.
Sergeant Bench was standing outside. But this time, he was not alone. There were three men with him . . . suited men.
Teresa puzzled, and prepped herself as a touch of apprehension crept into her stomach. This was very unusual, especially at this late hour. She wondered who they could possibly be? She knew who they were not. They weren’t from the DCFS.
The door opened.
Sergeant Bench peered in. He seemed somewhat agitated. “These men just showed up. They are a legal team representing Reitman Enterprises. They are here to,” he leaned in, “assist in the release and custody of the two kids.”
“What?” Teresa recoiled, now on her feet.
Bench motioned for her to join him outside the room. “Why don’t you come have a little chat with them yourself,” the officer suggested, still holding the door open.
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