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Landing me back in reality.
“That is correct,” Wesley says and grabs a pen from his desk, clenching it in
his hand as if he’s thinking of stabbing something with it.
I think we got under his skin.
I shouldn’t find it so funny.
“Then can we talk to the social workers that have been put in charge of them?” Megan says. “We would like to be involved in their future.”
“Also,” Dakota pipes in, “there have been thoughts of adoption.”
“Adoption?” The pen pings on the desk. “Whoa, one second.”
Wesley is not having the best day of his life. Maybe a good shock will turn him from Clark Kent into Superman.
“Yeah, adoption.” Dakota glances up at me, and I nod reassuringly. We talked about this possibility. “Not by us, but close members of our family have expressed interest. That way the kids could stay together, should they wish to. Sometimes… sometimes this kind of experience forges very strong bonds between people.”
“Dear God.” Wesley sighs tiredly as he leans back in his chair. “Slow down. You want to adopt these kids? Into your family?”
“That’s right,” I say. “If they want it, too.”
Maybe I’m crazy. I barely even remember their faces. Maybe they don’t want to see us again, or stay in this state, or see each other.
But Asher said something when I called him this morning to ask his opinion. He said, “There are five of us, five Damage Boyz, and now these five. I think it’s fate.”
I don’t believe in fate, not really, but it was the confirmation I needed.
“That’s funny.” Wesley shakes his head.
“What’s funny?”
“The kids have been asking for you.”
My breath catches, and I cover it with a curse. “When the hell were you gonna tell us?”
“I’m not in charge of their case, like I told you when you stepped inside. I’m only in charge of your case, Mr. Madden.”
“Zane,” I tell him. “Just Zane. Did you search the house in Wausau?”
He frowns. “About that, I—”
The phone on the desk starts ringing, and I jolt as if electrocuted. Dammit. Can’t wait for my damn brain to unwind a little.
Faintly, I hear Wesley talking. He even swivels around in his chair, giving us his back, trying for an illusion of privacy.
Poor fucker. We rattled him.
Then he swivels back toward us, and I swear he looks kinda pale around the mouth. “Yeah,” he says into the receiver. “Yeah, let me know.”
We look at him expectantly as he puts the receiver down and grimaces as if he has just bitten into a cupcake and found it stuffed with lemon cream.
Hey, it has happened to me. I bet I made that same face.
“Do you remember what Tyrese Weir wore the last time you saw him?” he asks.
My turn to frown at the randomness of the question. “Not really. Same shit we all wore, I guess. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers. There was this red baseball cap he loved, always wore it.”
