Page 61 of The House Beyond the Dunes

I don’t like the direction of this conversation. “Are you saying foster care kids can only love a big wallet?”

He ignores the challenge. “I looked up your records, too, Lane. You had a rough start. Your mother was a drug addict, she died when you were fourteen. You had to be moved from one home because you were lashing out at the foster parents and vanishing for days at a time.”

I can’t hide my confusion. “I’m not sure where you’re getting your information,” I say honestly. “I was in foster care, but I was one of the lucky kids. It was a positive experience. It saved my life.”

“Then why were you relocated three times?”

“The first foster family had another child who was acting out, so I was moved to the second home for my protection. I left the secondhome for a similar reason, and I aged out of the third. For the record, the moves were difficult, but they weren’t devastating.”

“That’s not what the report reads.”

“You pulled my reports? They’re supposed to be sealed.”

“I have friends.”

I shake my head. I’ve built a wall around my past, and to discover it’s been breached is deeply unsettling. My discomfort aside, why would he dig deep into my past if he didn’t suspect me of something much darker? “One thing I’ve learned in foster care and in my line of work is that caseworkers are overworked and underpaid, and they don’t always record the details correctly. Kids fall through the cracks.”

He doesn’t appear convinced. “Are you saying the report I received was wrong?”

I fold my arms. “It happens all the time. Did you talk to a caseworker?”

“I did.”

“Over the New Year’s holiday?” Cops call caseworkers at all hours during an investigation. They try to accommodate, but away from a desk or files, it’s easy to make a mistake. “How did you do such a deep dive in less than forty-eight hours?”

“I work fast.”

“And sloppy. I’ll bet money the social worker is about my age and was hired long after I left the system. She doesn’t know me from Adam.”

“You’re correct. She’s about your age.”

I don’t blame this woman. After long, hard days, I, too, wonder how long I’ll be able to stay positive working with so many hopeless people.

“Who could I call that would remember you?” he asks.

I shake my head as my annoyance grows. “No one. Foster kids are issued cloaks of invisibility when we enter the system. Once you’re inside and the cape is on, we vanish. No one sees us. No one remembers us.”

“Your report documents regular visits by several different caseworkers.”

“Okay. Did you call any of them? Or how about my foster parents?” Anger surges. These people were supposed to have been caring for me, yet they don’t remember me.

“I tracked down one of your foster parents. We spoke on the phone. She doesn’t remember you exactly because you were with her a month,” Detective Becker concedes. “Like you said, she was overwhelmed.”

His concession brings me no joy. “She made a mistake. It happens. But I can assure you, I didn’t have behavioral problems.”

“Are you in counseling?” he asks.

Again, he pivots. “That’s not your business.”

“You said you’re on medication.”

“For sleepwalking.”

“Are you seeing a counselor?”

I haul air into my lungs and then shove it out. Annoyance is warming my face. “I was. I’m out of money right now. My car finally died, and I had to buy a new one. When I get a job with benefits, I’ll return.”

“No PT, no lawyer, and now no counselor. That’s unfortunate, Lane,” he says quietly. “All would be good for you.”

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