16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Kayla

"… off the case," Director Smith finishes with a sigh.

"Seriously?!" I don't want to yell at my boss, but what the actual fuck? "How can you take us off the case?"

Smith heaves another sigh. "I don't have a choice, Kayla. Doctor Adams filed an official complaint, and he spun it so well that my phone hasn't stopped ringing since yesterday with people demanding I not just take you off the case but terminate your employment on the spot. I'm not going to do that," she adds at my gasp of horror, "but you cannot keep working on Aaron's case. I'm sorry, but my hands are tied on this."

"Yeah, I figured something like this would happen," Michelle says solemnly. "But Victoria, that boy literally wet himself the second his father barged into the room. There's something terribly wrong in that relationship."

"I know. Do you think I like this, Michelle? I don't. But I have superiors, and Adams happens to be friends with them. The way he put it, it was all Kayla's fault for terrorizing the boy. And yes," she continues before I can voice my outrage, "I know that's not what happened. But there's literally nothing I can do now. Not officially, at least. Laurel will take over the intake."

I fight the urge to punch something. Or someone. "Laurel idolizes Adams. She'll just take his word for everything and close the case!"

"Laurel is an excellent social worker with years of practice," Smith argues. "If there's something wrong, she'll report it. If not officially, then to me."

"How's that going to help Aaron? If she closes the case, we can't help him."

The corner of Michelle's mouth quirks up. "Not officially. You're going to call Ethan Bennett, aren't you?"

"Of course not," Smith says with a wry smile. "Sharing case details with someone outside the CPS would be a direct violation of our policies, wouldn't it?"

Ethan Bennett. I smother a groan, remembering my drunken masturbation session in the shower. It's a good thing my dark skin helps hide my blush. Were I white, my face would be tomato red. "He's, um, he's a private investigator, right?" I say, having to clear my throat.

"Yes, and he works for us free of charge on cases like this," Smith replies. "I don't know his motivation, but I won't turn down free help from a brilliant PI like him."

"It always seemed to me he truly cares about the kids," Michelle supplies. "Doesn't want them to be abused."

Oh, of course he does. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Mr. Perfect. Perfect body, perfect personality, perfect everything.

Does he have a dark secret? Has he been abused as a child? Is that why he helps CPS for free? And why the hell do I even care?

Smith shrugs. "He never told me anything, and I'm not about to pry into his privacy. The bottom line is he delivers. If there's something going on in the Adams' residence, he'll find out and bring proof. With that, we can reopen the case and get the judge on our side because Jessica Hudson won't go against Benjamin Adams unless we have hard evidence."

"Is this guy like the fucking Godfather? He can't control the entire town like this!" What the fuck is this, the Wild West?

"He's not controlling the town, he just has powerful friends. Everywhere," Smith says. "Stay away from him, Kayla. That's not just an order from your superior but also friendly advice. Adams is a vindictive man."

I sneer. "I thought he was an upstanding citizen."

"Those two often go hand in hand in towns like this. Work your other cases, Kayla, and forget about Benjamin Adams. I'll handle him."

With a sigh, I rub my forehead. "It's not Benjamin Adams I'm worried about," I mutter. "It's Aaron." The boy's frightened look haunted my dreams all night.

"I know," Smith says. "But you know just as well as I do there's nothing we can do for him right now."

I grunt my agreement as I leave Smith's office. Sometimes, I hate these stupid laws and the fact we have to follow them even when there's clearly a child in danger. I guess I'm not an upstanding citizen either.

Definitely not an upstanding citizen, I think to myself, remembering Craig's photograph, which I finally burned last night. It was the only evidence proving his death wasn't just a random killing in the bad part of the city, and instead of giving it to the police, I burned it. Am I a criminal now?

For the rest of the day, I do my best to focus on my other cases, but my thoughts linger on Aaron Adams. I became a social worker to help children and his case tugs at my heartstrings. I wish there was something I could do, but Smith has made herself clear—I'm to stay away from the entire Adams family. Shaking my head, I recall the original Adams Family. Those guys were monsters but at least they loved each other. Benjamin Adams doesn't seem to love anyone, not even his own son.

I'm in a foul mood on my way home. I take a hot shower, but the steaming water does nothing to ease my anxiety. My mood worsens even further as I notice a thin layer of dust on the mirror shelf and some stains on the sink. Right. I'm supposed to clean my bathroom regularly. I guess I'd been spoiled by living with my parents because I've never done that before. How does one even clean a bathroom?

God, I'm such a shitty adult.

In the kitchen, I pour the noodles I brought from a takeout box on a plate and sit down to eat. "Stop looking at me," I growl at the single bluebell flower that seems to be taunting me from the other end of the table. "This is ridiculous. I don't even like flowers. I like chocolate. Why can't I have a stalker who brings me chocolate? Or better yet, one who cleans my bathroom? No, I get flowers. Stupid."

I put the empty plate into the sink, then turn on the kettle to make myself my nightly cup of tea. My hands move automatically as I reach into a cupboard to grab my favorite mug, just like I did yesterday. And, just like yesterday, my mug sits there, neatly washed.

I hold the mug in my trembling fingers, my heart pounding at the realization. I never washed my mug yesterday; I just put it into the sink, thinking I'd do it later. In fact, I haven't done dishes ever since I moved here, and yet, every day, the sink is empty.

I look at the table, at the spot where I always eat my morning yogurt. How many times did my mother chide me about leaving the cup on the table? How many times did she ask me to at least throw it in the trash and put the spoon in the sink? I never did and I'm certain I didn't do it this morning either.

The mug I'm holding wants to slip out of my feeble grasp, so I set it down. Grasping my pounding head in my hands, I sink onto the floor as I try to reconcile myself with the undeniable facts.

The new locks didn't stop the stalker. He's been here, every day. He's…done my dishes?

A hysterical chortle escapes me as I imagine calling the police. "Yes, Sheriff, someone has been coming to my house every day for the past week. No, they didn't steal anything. They just tidied my kitchen and did my dishes because I'm sort of a slob. Crazy? No, I'm not crazy."

Or am I? Perhaps I'm making this all up. Perhaps I have been doing my own dishes and just don't remember it? It's unlikely, but still more probable than a stalker invading my home just to put away my yogurt cups and wash my spoons. Nobody is that insane.