Chapter 13 - A Brother on the Payroll
I read Mateo's name three times. It did not change.
"He's working for them?" I asked.
"That could be a cover," Eli said.
"Or it could mean he lied to you."
"That's possible too."
Nobody hurried to comfort me. I was grateful for that. I couldn't stand another person telling me the news was complicated when I could feel it tearing through my chest.
We drove to the seventh property, a low brick building on the edge of a neighborhood the city had forgotten. The sign outside read FAMILY TRANSITION SERVICES. Its windows had fresh blinds, but the playground behind it was full of weeds.
Jo stayed in the van with Eli. Adrian and I approached the front door carrying a box of donated winter coats. We had picked them up from a thrift store ten minutes earlier. They smelled of dust and dryer sheets.
A middle-aged receptionist took one look at our box. "We don't accept walk-ins."
"We were sent by the foundation," Adrian said, showing a contractor badge. "We need the manager's signature."
"Mr. Reyes isn't here."
"When will he be back?" I asked.
"He's been missing since Friday."
She spoke too quickly. Her eyes flicked toward a camera near the ceiling.
A little girl appeared in the hallway holding a paper cup. She looked eight or nine. She stared at me, then at the coat box.
"Those for us?" she asked.
"They are if you want one," I said.
The receptionist snapped, "Go back to class."
The girl didn't move. "They say we have to pretend our parents don't call."
Adrian went very still.
The receptionist came around the desk, seized the girl's shoulder, and steered her back. "She has adjustment issues. You need to leave."
I put the box down. "What's her name?"
"None of your business."
"She said her parents call. Do you let her speak to them?"
The woman reached for the desk phone. Adrian gently blocked her hand.
"I'm asking as a contractor for the foundation," he said. "Who is responsible for the children here?"
"Mr. Reyes," she repeated. "And he's not here."
A door opened behind her. A young man stepped into the hallway, his wrists marked by tape. Dark curls. Crooked front tooth.
I knew him before he spoke.
May you like
"Mara?" he whispered.
Then the receptionist pressed a red button under the desk.
