Page 88 of Wicked Games

I fall through the floor, into an office.

The social worker sits across from me, behind a desk. “You can’t see him. He was arrested.”

“B-but why?” I sob.

“He did something bad and now he’s paying for it.”

I don’t ask what he did. I don’t care. I just want my dad.

“Margo?”

I glance up.

“A new family is going to take you. We’re going there now.”

We dissolve into smoke.

A distant beeping sound drags me up. Up, up, out of the dream world and back into reality.

My eyes open, and I lie there for a second. I try to catch my breath. My heart races, my pulse thundering through my body. Whether it was a dream or broken memories, it’s given me an idea. My dad holds the key. He’s the only one who might talk to me, give me answers.

What he did and whatIdid… they must be related.

I grab my phone, texting Riley to come early, and then shuffle into the shower. The dream slips away, as they usually do, but I can’t forget the sound of my own sobbing because they refused to let me see him.

That holds its own sort of trauma, doesn’t it? Being taken out of my family, away from everything I knew, is one thing. But then never getting to see my father, who I loved with my whole heart, and being told he had done terrible things…

How would I ever trust again?

I’m still getting dressed when Riley knocks on my door and steps inside.

“What’s the nine-one-one?”

I make sure the door is shut, then blurt out, “I had a weird dream.”

She rolls her eyes. “This seems to be a trend.”

“No—I think it was more than that. I was a kid sitting in my social worker’s office, and she wouldn’t let me see my dad. She wouldn’t even tell me what he did.”

She cocks her head. “I thought you said it was something drug related.”

I nod. “Yeah. I thought the news said as much, but I also remember seeing Lydia at a later point, and she mentioned it, too. But why wouldn’t the social worker just say that?”

“And Lydia is?—?”

“Caleb’s mom.”

“I smell something fishy going on.” She sits on my bed, pulling out her phone. After a few minutes of frantic typing and scrolling, she exhales. “He’s been in prison since you were ten?”

“Yeah.” I gnaw on my lower lip. It has me unsettled this morning.

“That’s seven years,” she mutters. “Was it a felony charge?”

I stare at her.

“I’m just searching general sentencing,” she explains. “It’s confusing without knowing what he was charged with. But unless he was found with a lot of drugs…”

“He was arrested in a park,” I say. “He was with me.”

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