“He ran away from a group home on July seventh,” she said, all accusatory in her tone as if it were my fault she’d placed me with pervs.
“Why was no report generated?” the man asked. “We’ve been trying to identify this kid for almost two months.”
“He runs away multiple times a year. You try keeping up.”
Actually, I’d run away twice in my lifetime, both times because of her shitty placements. The other times, I’d just been hiding.
“It’s November twenty-eighth, Ms. Sutlidge. Are you saying you didn’t know he was missing for nearly five months?”
The accusation was clear, and that royally pissed Mary off. She used her pointer finger to talk the suited man down. “I knew he was missing. I just hadn’t gotten the report filed yet. I really don’t appreciate your tone, Mr. Dutch. I’d like to see you have the workload of three social workers and still get your reports in on time.”
“Actually, it’s Special Agent Dutch, and I have quite a workload myself.”
“Are you insinuating I wasn’t doing my job, Mr.… Agent… Dutch?”
He held his ground. “In this particular situation, I believe there’s considerable room for improvement.”
Despite my head injuries, I had no problem following their volley like a spectator at a tennis match, and I took great satisfaction in watching Mary squirm. She’d stolen my voice years ago, and no one had ever called her out on it—until today.
“Yeah, Mary.” I jumped into the fray. “Do your fucking job.”
Mary pinched her lips, so bent out of shape at the condemnation despite her negligence being undisputedly proven. The agent dude, on the other hand, was biting back a chuckle.
“I think that’s all I need from you now, Ms. Sutlidge,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Let’s hope not,” she huffed, pivoting on her heel and marching out, again without bothering to acknowledge me.
The man watched her go before turning back to me. “She seems nice.”
“And they wonder why I run.”
“They told me you didn’t talk.”
“It’s not that I’m physically incapable. I just choose not to.”
He nodded. “I do that with my wife.”
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny but it was, sort of. I kept my poker face, though, until I knew what his angle was.
The man pulled up a chair and gingerly eased his body down onto the unforgiving plastic. “Hope you don’t mind if I sit. I had a bonding-related injury last night. Was teaching my kid how to swing a bat, and he apparently got confused by the direction. Smashed me straight on the kneecap. I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
“What’d you do to him?” I asked, knowing what would’ve happened to me if I’d been the one to reverse the bat.
“What do you mean?”
“Your son. What did you do to him after he hit you with a bat?”
“Nothing. It was an accident.”
A momentary silence fell over the conversation as I pondered what it must be like to maim with impunity. In my experience, there were few things more terrifying than causing injury by accident and then awaiting the punishment that would surely follow.
“I’m Special Agent Daniel Dutch, but everyone just calls me Dutch.”
He’d already established that with Mary, but I nodded anyway. I didn’t know much about police work, but I was surprised they’d sent a special agent to investigate a “mugging,” which was what Hartman’s attempted murder had been labeled since I hadn’t provided any details to dispute the police’s findings.
“I’ve been looking for you for years, Rory.”
The solemn expression on his face sent a chill straight up my spine. Fuck. This wasn’t about the mugging at all. And Dutch confirmed it when he revealed himself to be a member of a special unit within the FBI investigating cybercrimes involving child assault victims. I’d always feared this day, knowing it was only a matter of time before my past caught up to me.
