To protect Carrie.
“I have to see her.” All coolness, or hint of composure, left the man’s voice. “She’s a part of the sister I just saw buried.”
Sue said nothing.
“Family is not something I can take for granted, Ms. Bookman. I grew up without one. I know how it feels to wonder what’s wrong with you, why you weren’t wanted enough to have a mother and father who loved you. What it’s like to be caught in the system. I survived. My little sister did not. I can’t let the same thing happen to her daughter.”
“You’re already doing what you can. You’re applying to adopt her.”
Jenny had been adopted. And lied to.
“I’ve started the paperwork.” Frustration seeped from the man’s voice on the other end of the line. “But I’ve been led to believe that someone else is there before me. A possible family member. From what I gleaned from my attorney, the process was already in the works before Christy’s death, just in case she didn’t meet minimum standards to get Carrie back. If I can’t get a stay, the adoption could be granted before I’m able to prove my rights to the child.”
Christy hadn’t tol
d her about someone applying to adopt her baby.
“And I can’t do anything about that.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Rick said, enunciating clearly. “My sixteen-year-old sister is dead, Ms. Bookman. Right now, I just want to see her daughter while I still know where she’s living.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kraynick. I really am. Get permission from WeCare and I’ll happily facilitate a visitation at your convenience. Think about it. If foster parents were able to make these kinds of decisions, they’d be at risk of intimidation from every abusive parent who wanted access to his or her child.”
“That’s your final word?”
“It has to be. I’m sorry.”
Feeling uneasy, Sue hung up.
And wished she could call Grandma.
HE SHOULDN’T BE DOING this. He was assistant superintendent of a fairly large school district. Had ethical and moral standards to uphold. Examples to set.
Yet Rick drove slowly down the street, anyway, searching for the address Chenille Langston had given him at the cemetery. They’d only had one brief conversation but the young girl had told him that Christy had driven her friend by the place many times, when she’d been lonely for her baby. She’d said she wanted Chenille to know where Carrie was in case of an emergency. Christie wanted to be sure Carrie was cared for. Loved. But Chenille was only a kid herself. No one listened to her, she’d said. They certainly wouldn’t give her a baby.
Chenille’s words to Rick at the cemetery had been “It doesn’t get any more emergency than this.” She’d trusted him to make certain that Christy’s baby didn’t get lost in the system.
So he was using the statement of a confused young woman as justification for circumventing the system?
Maybe Mark and Darla Samson were right. Maybe he did need to talk to somebody. They’d been after him to do so ever since Hannah died the year before.
Maybe he really was nuts.
Not that his friends had said as much. But he suspected, by the wariness in their eyes, the shared glances when they thought he wasn’t looking, that they thought so.
He’d known Mark, and through him, Darla, for years. Had hired him, in fact, to be the high school basketball coach when he’d been principal of Globe High.
Rick stopped the Nitro in front of a large yard with a smallish house set far back on the property, about ten miles south of San Francisco. It was just after four on Wednesday afternoon. The Samsons would absolutely not approve of this visit.
He could hear a baby crying as he approached the front door, and his heart lurched. Carrie? His flesh and blood?
She sounded hungry.
Rick knocked. And then, seeing the button beside the handle, rang the bell.
The crying stopped. Footsteps approached, on what sounded like a wood floor.
Wood floors were drafty. And…