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That goddamned, never-ending guilt which says it’s up to me to save the world, and I’m doing a piss-poor job of it.
***
It doesn’t help when I get a phone call from Dakota, just as I switch on my computer at the office in Damage Control, to tell me the police contacted them.
Kenneth Shaw isn’t fostering kids anymore—hasn’t, in years. They’re trying to find him, but his registered phone number seems to be out of service, and he won’t answer the door.
Fuck.
The other news is that Zane can’t come to work today. He had a very bad night, Dakota says, and I can hear the tremble in her voice. God knows what those few simple words imply.
Flashbacks. Night terrors.
This can’t go on. We’re losing Zane, goddammit. I won’t fucking allow that. I won’t sit by and watch him drown in his past.
“God, Rafe… This is it, then.” Dakota sounds close to tears, and I can’t imagine what it must be like, watching your man fall apart in front of your eyes while being told there’s no solution.
“No, this isn’t it.” I resist the urge to throw the phone against the wall and continue with my fists. “I promise, Koko. Give me the number they called you from. I’ll talk to the police.”
Tell them where to shove it with their fucking regulations and failures.
“Lee is crying. I have to go.” She sighs. “I’m texting you the number. Don’t get into a fight with the police, okay? This isn’t on them. Remember that.”
I’m gripping the phone so hard chances are I’ll break it anyway. “I won’t. Megan wanted to come by today. Call her.”
“I will. And thanks.”
“What for? I’ve done nothing,” I say gruffly, bitterly.
“You’ve been there all along. That’s the greatest gift.”
But it’s not, I think as I disconnect and sit there, drumming my fingers on the desk and waiting for her text. The greatest gift, the only gift that matters, is to get Kenneth Shaw to answer for his crimes and be locked away where he can’t cause more harm.
I’m failing. I’m failing Zane again.
The text comes through, and I stare at the name and number. A cell phone number. Name of
Wesley Logan. Not the officer from yesterday, then.
I force myself to press call, wondering what the use will be.
I’m wondering the same five minutes later, after Wesley Logan has first explained to me that I have no business calling him as I’m not registered family of Zane’s, and then proceeds to bombard me with the finer points of the law that won’t allow the police to break in and search that asshole’s house or launch a manhunt.
Maybe he’s overworked and tired.
But hell, I’m all out of fucks. I’m exhausted and out of options. “You’re gonna let a sexual predator, a children molester, a goddamn rapist walk because the law won’t allow you to open the door of his damn house. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Mr. Vestri—”
“No, you listen.” I huff, rub at my eyes, pray for some calm. “You know where he lives. He will go back sooner or later. Post a policeman at the door until he returns.”
“Mr. Vestri… if he denies the accusations, and he will deny them, there’s nothing we can do. Do you understand?”
Holy fucking hell. “And that’s all? All you can do?”
“Unless there’s some new information you want to share with us, I’m afraid that’s it.”
Jesus Christ. “New information?”
