Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

LILY

W hen I started working as a junior social worker three months ago, I was stunned by how hectic the main office was. When I first walked in, I was sure I'd accidentally wandered into a newsroom or a stock exchange. People walked back and forth, snapping information at each other. People exchanged hurried notes. There were stacks of paper everywhere. Everybody looked tired and worn down.

Now, it doesn't shock me. I arrive for work with the same determination I've felt since first winning a scholarship out of high school. The competition required me to write a letter explaining how I wanted to help people, an interview, a test case, and now this—my reward.

I'm twenty-two years old and ready to make the world a better place despite what my boss, Carter Weston, says daily. Today, he's leaning back in his office chair, his feet resting on his desk. He's in his mid-forties, but this job—or maybe just life—has aged him more than that. His hair has crept back. His face is rough—almost leathery—and his expression always seems resigned but never angry, more like accepting of how cruel the world can be.

"We're going to have to split today," he mutters, glancing up from the sheaf of papers he has propped on his chest.

"Okay …"

I glance across the busy room to the director's office. Technically, I'm not supposed to head out into the field without Carter beside me. However, with our absurd caseload, Carter sometimes sends me to jobs alone, and then I'll fill in the paperwork as though he was there. He signs it, and we move on. So far, it's meant helping more people.

Though, it also means risking my job. It's a danger, for sure. On my first day, when Carter opened the files for his nine active cases and told me to choose one to ignore, I learned how cold this business really is.

"As long as we're safe," I mutter.

"Safe," he repeats with a humorless laugh. Sitting forward, he puts the papers down, staring at me with bloodshot eyes. "We're safer than the three brothers trapped for an entire day with their violent, drug-addicted?—"

"I don't need the emotional blackmail, Carter," I hiss. "I'm here to help people. Otherwise, I would've told you to go to hell months ago."

He sighs, nodding. "You're right. I'm sorry. It's just this job …"

"Try to think about the good we're doing. That's what I try to do."

"For every good thing, there are ten or twenty bad ones."

"If you think like that, you'll never be happy."

"I've worked here for nearly twenty years, Lily. Believe me, I stopped trying to be happy a long time ago."

I shake my head. I think I may even make a tsking sound, which I've tried to stop myself from doing because it makes me come off as thinking I'm better than people, as prissy .

"I don't agree with that," I say. "I think if you come to work and do your best and manage to help some people, there's no reason to let it eat away at you all the time."

"So you haven't had any nightmares? Or days off stolen by memories of this place?"

"I just don't see the benefit in going on about it," I snap. "Anyway …" I lower my voice. "Why the split today?"

"I've whittled the cases down to two that need help. One is a girl whose mother has allowed her to hang out in some dive bar across the street. A few of the neighbors have contacted us. The other is a kid whose uncle keeps him in the same enclosure as a large dog; a relative informed us about it. It's the only way we would've heard since it's on the city's outskirts. I'm taking the dog."

He gives me one of his looks. It doesn't take much to decode it. He's basically telling me—without saying it—that there's a chance he goes out to this place and the dog mauls him. Or the psycho uncle beats him up. He's giving me a look that says, You've got the easy job.

"Where's the file?" I ask bluntly.

The bitter truth is there are never any easy jobs in this profession.