Chapter 1
Keisha stepped intothe Kendall Foster Agency, the door clicking shut.Her sneakers clung to the linoleum, battling a haze of toner, bleach, and burnt coffee.Her satchel, heavy with case files, pulled at her shoulder.
She adjusted the medical bracelet on her wrist, its metal cool:epilepsy, levetiracetam, emergency contact.At sixteen, it had shamed her.At thirty-two, it was just part of her.
Her cubicle hid in the corner, safe from window glare.She dropped her satchel, sank into her chair.Tiana’s photo grinned from a plain frame—gap-toothed, bright-eyed, sixteen, scarred by seven foster homes.A foster sister lost to the system years ago gnawed at Keisha, pushing every file she opened.
“You deserve better,” Keisha murmured, tapping the frame before waking her computer.
Her hand trembled, a faint aura signaling trouble.She dug out her medication, swallowing the pill dry.Fatigue would drag at her soon, but work didn’t wait.
Imani Wells’ file lit the screen, a fourteen-year-old too trusting, placed through Coastal Futures three months ago.Keisha scrolled to the contact details: a P.O.box, no address.Her stomach twisted.Three cases this week with P.O.boxes.Two with matching references.Five with one judge’s signature across districts.
“No chance that’s random,” she muttered, logging it in her spreadsheet.
Her fingers brushed a folded paper in her satchel, unplaced.Her pulse spiked, uneven, as she unfolded it.
Stop chasing missing kids.They’re gone.
The scrawl was jagged, ink smeared.Someone had slipped it in here, today.Her eyes scanned the empty office.
She tabbed to her master spreadsheet, tracking Coastal Futures’ placements.Thirty-seven kids.Twenty-two with gaps in records.Fifteen with red flags, like Tiana’s—a runaway handed to a family always moving.Imani had come to her last month, journal clutched, whispering about “weird questions” from her caseworker.Would anyone care if you switched schools?
Her trembling fingers tapped the keyboard.Tiana’s words from their last meeting seared.“They look at me like I’m for sale.”Keisha had flagged issues weeks ago—audit requests, complaints—blocked at every step.
A legal pad slid from her drawer, her pen carving names, dates, patterns.No keystroke could erase these.Fatigue hit, thoughts snagged like files in a jammed drawer.Late morning, her watch said.Hours to push through.
She emailed the Miami Child Welfare Board—short, no accusations.Just the pattern: P.O.boxes, missing home studies, suspect judges.She attached her anonymized spreadsheet and hit send.
A new file landed.Another Coastal Futures placement.“Not this kid,” she said, opening it.Same markers—P.O.box, vague references, Judge Wilson’s name.Three was chance.Five was a pattern.Fifteen was a machine.
Her desk phone jarred the silence.“Crawford,” she answered, voice firm.
“Ms.Crawford.”A smooth, strange man.“I hear you’re digging into our placements.”
Her spine locked.“Who’s this?”
“A concerned party.Coastal Futures values your effort, but our placements are clean.”
“I didn’t tell Coastal about my audit.”
A pause.“Word spreads.”
“How’d you get my number?”
His chuckle iced her skin.“We track our investments.Those kids are fine.Look elsewhere, Ms.Crawford.”
The line died.Her heart slammed, eyes on Tiana’s photo.“I’m not stopping,” she murmured.
She saved her notes to a secure folder, locked her computer.Rest called—medication demanded it—but resolve held her steady.Someone saw her digging.Trouble was close.
Malik’s cologne—sandalwood, black pepper—hit before his shadow, his broad frame filling her cubicle.“Got a second, Keisha?”he asked, easing into her chair.
“Wrapping something up.”She minimized her spreadsheet, too late.
“Still chasing that audit?”His eyes narrowed, tie knotted with navy anchors.
“Someone’s gotta do it.”Her hands pressed the desk, hiding a tremor.
