“That’s right.”

“One of those events was Riley McQuaid being detained at a party where alcohol was present.”

“Yes.” He answers and starts to lecture, “Underage drinking is a sign of lack of parental supervision.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Are you aware that fifty-one percent of teenagers experiment with alcohol before their fifteenth birthday?”

“I can’t say if that’s true or not, I don’t know the exact statistic.”

Again I’m moving forward, closer to him. “But if it was true—fifty-one percent, that would be . . . average, wouldn’t it?”

“That doesn’t make it permissible—”

“No, Dexter, it doesn’t. It just makes it normal.”

I flip the page of the file with a snap and trail my finger down the center. “Your next issue? Rory breaking his arm?”

“That’s right. Grave injuries, fractures, are always cause for concern.”

“Even though over seven million people broke a bone in the US last year?” I inform him. “Even though the average adult will have sustained two bone fractures within their lifetime? Rory is a healthy, active nine-year-old, so again, by these statistics it’d be more surprising if he hadn’t broken his arm at some point.”

He sighs. And rubs his eyes. Because I’m wearing him down. Stressing him out.

Good.

“What else caught your attention on the red-flag parade?” I ask.

“Rory McQuaid’s arrest, as well as the physical altercation between one of the other minors and a classmate at school.”

“The other minor’s name is Raymond. And again, a schoolyard quarrel really isn’t atypical for a boy his age.”

“No”—Smeed adjusts his glasses—“but when you add it to the other issues, it compounds—”

“You are aware these children lost both their parents—violently? Unexpectedly?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did it occur to you that they were acting out? Struggling to deal with the emotional trauma they had to endure?”

“However—”

I take a step closer, my voice rising with my anger. Because he didn’t take the time, didn’t bother to see any of them. All because he thought he knew better. “Did it for one second occur to you that the reason the flags were so numerous is because there are so many kids? Perfectly normal children experiencing everyday milestones—they’re just doing it all at the same time!”

“No. You don’t know—”

“I’ll tell you what I do know, Dexter,” I spit. “I know that you wrenched these kids away from the only family they have left. You took them from the only home they know—where they were wanted, and loved, and most of all, they were safe!”

“They weren’t safe!” he shouts back, pointing in Chelsea’s direction. “She’s not capable—”

“You wouldn’t know capable if it came along and bit you on—”

The judge’s gavel bangs and she calls for order.

I take a deep breath and reel it in.

I hold up a supplicating hand to the judge. “Just one or two more questions, Your Honor.”

She doesn’t look happy. “Proceed.”

My voice is even as I ask, “If Robert and Rachel McQuaid had survived, and if all the ‘red flags’ had unfolded the same way—would you have sought to terminate parental custody?”

This is the big one. More important than the stats I’ve cited or the counterarguments I’ve given.

“I deal in facts, Mr. Becker. Truths. I’m not going to entertain your hypotheticals,” he sneers.

Until the judge speaks up. “Actually, that’s an answer I’d like to hear as well, Mr. Smeed. If the children had been in the custody of the biological parents, would the situation have been dire enough—given the information you have—to warrant their removal from the home?”

He blinks and swallows. Stares and shifts. But he’s not dumb enough to lie to a judge. “To the extent that I can predict such a thing, Your Honor, if it had been a two-parent household, with the biological parents present . . . no, it is more than likely we would not have sought custody of the children.”

“Would they have even been on CFSA’s radar?” I ask. “A broken arm, a fight on the playground, a busted-up keg party—would you have ever even heard of the McQuaids?”

He looks down, fidgets again, and then says, “Most likely . . . no.”

Swish. Nothing but net.

“I’m done with him, Your Honor.”

• • •

After the CFSA questions Smeed—reinforcing his bullshit claims about dire consequences and the potentially unsafe environment Chelsea’s guardianship poses—he’s excused from the stand. I squeeze Chelsea’s knee under the table, then I stand up and call her as a witness. She gets sworn in and sits in the witness box, looking small—timid.

I catch her gaze and give her a smile, then I lean back casually against the table.

“Are you nervous, Chelsea?”

She glances at the judge, then back to me. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Don’t be. It’s just you and me, having a conversation.”

She nods her head and I get started.

“Tell me about the kids.”

Chelsea practically glows as she talks about the strong-minded woman Riley is growing into, Rory’s precocious energy that will one day lead him to do great things. She smiles as she discusses Raymond’s kind nature, and how no one can be in a room with Rosaleen and not smile. She gets choked up when she mentions Regan and how she learns from her brothers and sisters, and what a good baby Ronan is, how badly she wants to be there to watch him grow into the amazing kid she knows he’ll be.