Page 30 of Open Secrets
The knock startled me. Sharp, loud enough to cut through the hum of the dryer downstairs.
“Shit.” I wiped my hands on my leggings and darted down the hall on my toes so the kids didn’t wake. The laundry basket was half-sorted, socks spilling like guts, but I didn’t stop.
I skidded to the front door and wedged myself between the frame and whoever was out there. An older woman stood on the porch, hair smoothed into a neat bun, a folder tucked against her chest. Her smile was polite, professional, but something about it prickled.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Hi. Mrs. Connelly?”
I nodded. My throat went dry. “Oh my God—my husband. Is he okay?”
She waved her hand, quick. “Yes, yes, I’m not here about that.”
Relief collapsed through me—only to twist when she added, “My name is Linda Moran. I’m a social worker with the school district.”
I blinked at her. “Okay?”
“We’ve had a report regarding your daughter, Rain.” She flipped open her folder, eyes skimming down. “Her prolonged absence from school. The other children mentioned she’s been sick.”
I went still, spine snapping straight. “You spoke to my children. Without me or my husband present.”
She nodded, that polite smile never wavering. “It’s protocol when there’s a concern of neglect.”
Neglect. The word slammed into me.
I opened my mouth to tell her to get the hell off my porch, but she added lightly, “Schools are mandated reporters, Mrs. Connelly. I need to check on the children on the premises. If you’d prefer, I can always return with an officer.”
She said it like she was offering tea.
Fury thrummed in my veins. She was threatening me with a smile.
“They’re sleeping,” I bit out.
“I’ll wait,” she said pleasantly, stepping one polished shoe across the threshold.
I bared my teeth in something faker than her own smile and stepped aside.
The living room didn’t help my case. Cushions were askew, August’s Lego landmines lay underfoot, two half-folded blankets were tossed over the arm of the couch. Rain’s pillow still sat onthe recliner from last night, her feverish body refusing to move upstairs.
“She’s had the flu,” I said quickly, shutting the door behind us. “For a week. I haven’t exactly…” I gestured vaguely at the mess.
“Of course,” she murmured, lowering herself into the armchair like she was settling in for coffee. She pulled a stack of forms onto her lap, pen poised. “I just have a few questions for you.”
I crossed my arms, chin lifting. “Fine.”
“Your husband is First Lieutenant Lyle Connelly, Army, currently stationed at Fort Liberty?”
Her tone was mild, but my jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“Congratulations on his recent promotion,” she added, smiling.
I nodded once, waiting for her to move on.
“And you’re a dentist. Opened your own clinic, correct?”
“Yes.” My voice came clipped.
“That must be stressful. Running a business while raising four children.”
