Sophie (The Boss 8)

She looked confused and said nothing.

“Child Protective Services,” I supplied, not sure if she was familiar with the concept. “They’re an agency who–”

“I know who they are. We have TBS. I’ve seen SVU. But what are they here about? Is it…” She swallowed visibly.

“It isn’t about our living arrangement,” Neil reassured her. “Amal, please don’t overreact when I ask you this. You’re a teenager. I won’t be mad if the answer is yes, but I need to know right away: do you have anything in your room that you shouldn’t? No grass, no pills?”

“No!” she shrieked. “What the fuck, Neil?”

“Watch your language!” he snapped back, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I apologize. I’m a bit tense, and I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“The police are here looking for drugs. Because someone suggested that the children in this home have free access to all the illicit substances they want,” I huffed, finally losing my patience. Not with her. I didn’t know why but Amal’s terrified reaction made me angrier at the situation than when the cops were rifling through my underwear. “The social worker wants to talk to you and ask you some questions.”

“Not without a lawyer.”

Amal moved for the door, and I stopped her. “They asked Neil and me to wait here while they search—”

“Well, they didn’t ask me!” she said, still stomping ahead.

“Please, Amal, you’re not thinking. You can’t just rush a police officer,” I reminded her.

She turned to me, her eyes filling with tears. “Why is this happening to us?”

I hugged her because I didn’t know what to do. And because she didn’t know what to do, she let me.

The search took two hours, but Jenna remained far later, interviewing Amal and Rashida and El-Mudad. Amal went last, as she had refused to speak to anyone without a lawyer present, a move that had impressed the hell out of me. Neither Neil nor I had thought of it in the heat of the moment. My upbringing had instilled a knee-jerk reaction where lawyers were concerned—why did you need one unless you did something wrong? But I recognized in hindsight that legal representation every step of the way probably would have been prudent. After Amal sat down with the social worker and her legal representation, Neil immediately called our attorney, as well.

I used the opportunity to contact Mariposa. As I’d predicted, Olivia hadn’t been traumatized in the least by the attention. Since she had no frame of reference for custody and investigations, there had been no reason for her to be alarmed. That might have been different if she’d seen the cops tossing the nursery looking for our non-existent stash. Mariposa and I agreed that as long as Olivia was fine, her day should continue as originally scheduled.

It would keep her out of the house, at least, while we dealt with the situation.

It was around six-thirty when Jenna finally gave us her card and some papers our lawyer had asked for, then drove off to determine our fate. Knowing the police wouldn’t have found any evidence didn’t make me feel more secure. With his job, Laurence had enough to pull to make something show up, I was sure.

Neil stood in the foyer, his back to the door he’d just closed. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other like a child waiting for a scolding. “What should we do? I feel like we should be doing something.”

“I think we’ve done everything we can do, at the moment,” he said, never meeting my eyes. “I’ll call our attorney in the morning. He has someone more experienced in custody cases who’ll meet with us.”

I hated the numbness in his tone, the stiffness in his posture. It was a sign that the wall had come up, that he’d isolated himself completely. He stood still for a moment longer. His eyes met mine for the briefest blink. Then he turned for the coat closet.

“What are you doing?” I asked warily as he reached for a jacket.

“I’m going out.”

“Not to confront Valerie, right?” My heartbeat accelerated at the thought of him storming off to the city and causing an even bigger problem than we already had.

He shook his head. “I’m not a fool, Sophie.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Was there a single thing that could come out of my mouth that wouldn’t sound patronizing or confrontational? “And I trust you completely. I’m just worried—”

I’m worried that you’ll go out and get drunk or score some drugs.

I’m worried you’ll kill yourself.

I didn’t have to say it for him to understand. His jaw set hard. “If you trust me completely, then you don’t need to worry.”

“Have you ever met me?” I tried to laugh, to inject some humor into a moment that was quickly becoming a catastrophe. “Can you tell me where you’re going?”