“What the . . . seriously, I’ve got to ask here, what the fuck has that got to do with you guys?”

She noticed the accent was losing a little of its shine.

“As I said, Mister Burnham, we’re talking about Abby this morning and it’s relevant—”

“It’s got fuck all to do with Abby, Miss . . . whatever the hell your name was. I’ll tell you what concerns Abby. One thing. And that’s me keeping a roof over our heads. You have nothing, fucking nothing, other than some teacher overreacting. I came here out of politeness. Do you understand? Came here and answered all your questions till you had no questions left. You guys are a waste of my taxes if we’re gonna be honest and if I wanted to, I could just take my daughter and tell you all where to go.”

He went to get up but his erection became trapped in the fold of his pants, forcing him to abandon the attempt.

Caitlyn waited to be sure he was done. “We do have a lot to get through today. Would you like to take a moment outside before we continue, Mister Burnham?”

He noticed that she’d said “today,” not “this morning,” as if this wasn’t going to be the usual thirty-minute meeting.

Her eyes seemed to look right through him, seemed to say, I know your type and I know what your game is. Her calm, professional demeanor unnerved him. He remembered the security guard he’d passed when he entered the second-floor corridor. A big Black guy. Armed. Looked like he could handle himself. There was something about the girl, no, woman—she was at least twenty-nine or thirty—facing him that said she’d faced scarier guys in her office.

There was a quiet knock at the door. It opened without waiting. Sure enough, the security guard looked in.

“Everything OK here, Caitlyn?”

Caitlyn looked at Spencer. He sighed. He’d finally begun to realize he had no control in the situation. His phone vibrated. That would be Johnny Boy or Sheila.

“We’re fine, Ray, thanks.”

The exchange was relaxed. All in a day’s work.

“Could I ask if you wouldn’t mind switching your phone off while we’re here, Mister Burnham? I think it might be a distraction.”

Spencer obeyed.

“So, Mister Burnham, here’s the situation. For the four weeks of it being open, your case was scored out as a Category Five.”

“I have no idea what that means. Some kind of hurricane classification?”

“Category Five means there is no evidence of abuse or neglect.”

Spencer gestured as if to say, Exactly. Caitlyn ignored it.

“I’ve been doing this job nearly ten years, and I’ve probably only seen that happen a half dozen times. We recently received information from an anonymous source saying your daughter is in some danger—”