But he didn't account for the man he hired falling in love with her. And he didn't account for a team of Marines with nothing better to do than pick his entire operation apart.
I start the truck and head home. There's work to do.
19
OLIVIA
When I pull into my drive after dropping Ethan off at day camp, I sit in the car for a moment. I usually rush into the house and carry on with my life, but ever since that break between Caleb and me, being home alone feels too quiet. I miss the interaction of having people in my life and I'd honestly rather work than sit around at home stewing. But today is my day off, and I can't just avoid being home.
I climb out of the car, grabbing my purse and keys, and as I shut the door, a tan sedan pulls into the driveway and parks behind my car. I'm not expecting anyone today, and I don't recognize the woman, so I wait with my arms crossed over my chest for her to get out of her car.
A woman steps out carrying a clipboard and a leather portfolio. She's mid-forties with brown hair pulled back, wearing slacks and a blouse with a county badge clipped to her lanyard. Her smile's warm and professional as she walks up the driveway, but the logo on that badge makes my blood run cold.
"Mrs. Bennett?" she asks, extending her hand.
"That's me." I shake it and feel the sweat already building on my palm.
"My name is Mrs. Finch. I'm with Child Protective Services." She holds up her badge so I can read it clearly. "We received a complaint regarding the welfare of a minor at this address and I'm here to conduct a routine home assessment. Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?"
My throat constricts before I can answer, and I let go of her hand. I know exactly who made whatever complaint it was that was filed. And I feel sick to my stomach as I gesture at the front door—though I keep a smile locked in place.
"Of course. Please come in." Leading her to the house, my mind is reeling. Between Caleb and Derek, I'm not sure who's worse. Which one of them could stoop so low as to call CPS and report me for anything? I've done nothing wrong. But I let her inside and guide her to the kitchen, dropping my purse and keys on the counter. "Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?"
"Water would be lovely, thank you." She sets her portfolio on the kitchen table and pulls out a pen along with a printed form covered in boxes, checkmarks, and enough blank lines to write a novel. I fill a glass at the sink and hand it to her, then sit down across from her with my hands folded under the table so she can't see them shaking.
"I want you to know this is completely standard procedure," Mrs. Finch says, clicking her pen. "When we receive a complaint, we're required to follow up with an in-home visit. It doesn't mean anything has been determined or that you've done anything wrong. I'm just here to look around, ask a few questions, and file my report."
"I understand." I keep my voice bright and easy. "Ask me anything you need to." I want to ask her a few questions—like who the hell thinks I'm a bad enough mom to warrant a visit like this? Like, why can someone just walk into my house to investigate my property without a court order or a warrant? And what if I want to resist this? Will they lock me up?
"How old is your son?"
"Uh, Ethan just turned eight in March." I'm so nervous, I keep wringing my hands. This is insane. Why would Derek do this to me?
"And he lives here full time with you?" She flicks a glance up at me, and I smile and nod.
"Yes. His father has visitation every other weekend and one evening during the week per our custody agreement."
Mrs. Finch writes that down and nods. "The complaint mentions concerns about medication storage in the home. Do you keep any prescription medications here?"
"I have a prescription for Sertraline, which is an antidepressant, and a prescription for Zolpidem, which helps me sleep. Both are prescribed by my doctor and stored in the kitchen cabinet above the sink, well out of Ethan's reach." It's obvious that at eight he can push a chair up there, but Ethan has never tried to touch my medications and I've always taught him that they aren't to be messed with.
"May I see where they're stored?"
"Absolutely," I say with a shaky voice, standing to open the cabinet and show her both bottles on the top shelf. She glances up at them and writes something on her form, then nods again.She's doing a lot of nodding. She reminds me of a bobble head for the dashboard of a car, though it's a good thing, right? She's not making negative faces or trying to snoop around other rooms.
"And these are kept up high at all times? Your son doesn't have access to them?"
"He can't reach that shelf without a step stool, and even then he'd have to move three other things to get to them. Besides, he knows the difference between medication and candy. I've taught him that."
"That's fine. Thank you." She closes the cabinet door for me, which I appreciate, and we sit back down. "The complaint also raised concerns about supervision. Can you walk me through a typical day when Ethan is home?"
I sigh, wondering what this is about. I'm always watching him, and he's always at home. I never leave him alone or unsupervised, unless they count times where he plays in the fenced-in back yard.
"During the school year, he's in class until three and I pick him up on my way home from work. In the summer, he goes to day camp. When he's home with me on weekends, he plays in the yard, rides his bike, kicks his soccer ball around. I can see the backyard from the kitchen window and I check on him constantly."
"Does he ever play outside unsupervised?" Now her eyes narrow on me and I'm getting the feeling that this is less to do with my parenting and more to do with Derek's stupid fake attack on Caleb. He hired Caleb to snoop around and then accused him ofbeing a stranger. For what reason? In case Caleb failed or hit on me?
"Can I ask who made this complaint?" I say, feeling like I'm being cornered.
