She went to Trent's desk, waited for him to usher James out and close the door, then picked up the phone.

"Hannah Stark."

"Good afternoon, Ms. Stark, my name is Kelly Post, and I'm with the Child Protective Services unit of the Damson County Department of Social Services. I've just concluded an interview with your daughter Lucy, and need to speak with you personally at your earliest convenience."

The numbness evaporated into a choking dread. "Where did you interview my daughter?"

"We're at the Department's Child Services Center. If you can get away, I'd like to speak with you at our offices as soon as possible."

The worker's voice was clipped, detached, and professional, while Hannah wanted to scream and scream and scream.

Her daughter had gotten into a car with strangers and was even now in strange surroundings, being questioned and emotionally probed and perhaps even physically examined.

"I will be there in thirty minutes. If my daughter is to be physically examined, I want that done by her own licensed pediatrician. Is that understood?"

"We can talk more about that when we meet in person, Ms. Stark."

No guarantee, no bargaining, just the monolithic power of the State. DSS made the rules, enforced the rules, and bore few consequences for breaking the rules.

"Tell my daughter I'm on my way." Hannah hung up.

Trent watched her from the across the room, and she could no more have kept the phone call private from him than she could accept a career in family law.

"That was Social Services. They have Grace, and they want to talk to me."

"Wait here." He disappeared, coming back a few minutes later with Hannah's coat, purse, and briefcase.

"What did they say?" he asked as he held her coat.

"Just the usual. They have her, they need to talk to me in person. But if they took her into custody, they suspect either abuse or neglect, otherwise they would have talked to her at school and left it at that."

"You don't know that," Trent said, reaching for his coat. "Come on, the sooner we leave, the sooner we'll get there."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are not dealing with those she-dragons alone, Stark, not after the day you've had. This is probably some simple misunderstanding, but I'm one of the few attorneys in this jurisdiction who's dealt with child welfare law in depth. I can clear up misunderstandings with the best of them. If that doesn't work, I'll start quoting them the Courts and Judicial Proceedings Article, COMAR, case law, local precedents from before Patlack's watch."

Trent had graduated from lawyer mode to gladiator mode, but all Hannah heard was, "You're not dealing with those she-dragons alone."

"Trent, I haven't been entirely honest with you."

"Worry about that later," he said, taking her by the elbow. "We can sort out your past when we're more certain of Grace's future. One thing I know for d.a.m.ned sure, you did not abuse or neglect your daughter."

The offer of support, the demand that Hannah allow his support, was too precious to quibble over. She got in his car and let him drive her downtown, but paused with him outside the drab brick office building that was Child Services.

"I changed my name," she said, wanting to tell him all of it.

"When?"

"When I was cut loose from foster care, I changed my name. They may not connect me with the Douglas County foster care case."

He scanned the building-a four-story tan brick box with a stingy allotment of narrow windows.

"The Department is inbred across county lines, particularly in this part of the state. You make the call whether to disclose your past or keep it to yourself. They aren't ent.i.tled to know everything about you, Hannah, contrary to what they sometimes think when they're in the middle of an investigation."

She let him escort her into the building and also let Trent be the one to approach the bulletproof gla.s.s and do the talking.

"Attorney Trenton Knightley is here with Ms. Hannah Stark. We have an appointment with Kelly Post."

Trent's voice was clipped, and apparently commanding, because the cipher behind the gla.s.s immediately picked up a phone.

"We'll wait by the window," Trent said, taking Hannah's arm. He led her past the usual gallery of pinched, anxious faces, and a few resigned, hopeless faces as well.

Did DSS have their children too?

"Ms. Stark, here to see CPS?" A woman who looked several years younger than Hannah stood at the interior door, scanning the lobby.

"There's a lawsuit right there," Trent muttered. "Blathering your business all over creation, for G.o.d's sake."

"Trent, they have Grace. Don't antagonize them." And they would demand to know who the child's father was in all likelihood.

"I'm Kelly Post," the woman said, extending a hand to Hannah. "Ms. Stark?"

"Hannah. And this is Trent Knightley."

The social worker extended a hand, her wary expression suggesting the "attorney" part had already been communicated to her. She led them to a small, nondescript conference room, closed the door, and took a few maddening minutes examining notes in silence.

"When can I see my daughter?" Hannah asked.

The worker looked up, her expression impossible to read. Was that the wrong question, or the only right question?

"She's down the hall in the playroom, and you can see her as soon as we're done, but what we have to discuss could be upsetting, and you may want some time to compose yourself before you see her."

Beside Hannah, Trent shifted back in his chair, but he held his peace. The subtle bracing of his body language was strategic, and Hannah was glad to have him beside her.

"I am a.s.suming Mr. Knightley is here today in the capacity of your legal representative?"

"I am not," Trent said, surprising Hannah. "I am here in a supportive role only."

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, sir," the social worker said. "Departmental investigations are confidential, and the matters they involve very sensitive."

Hannah cut in lest Trent lecture the little twit about having seen more departmental matters than she had in her entire filing cabinet.

"You do not have legal custody of my daughter yet. On her behalf, and on my own behalf, I will waive confidentiality and sign any necessary releases so Mr. Knightley can remain in the room at all times."

Trent settled. The social worker's brows rose, and then she shuffled papers.

"These are our standard releases," she said, sliding two pieces of paper across the table. "If you'll sign one for yourself and one for your daughter, we can proceed."

Hannah complied, her mind going into a familiar form of split functioning. One part of her would play chess with this functionary who stood between Hannah and Grace, and another part of her was in a blithering, lunatic panic, praying as hard as she could.

Across the table, the social worker put the signed waivers into the file, and leveled a flat look at Hannah.

"What explanations do you have for the bruising and lacerations on your daughter?"

Chapter 16.

Trent's adrenaline pumped, getting him ready for a knock-down, drag-out, steel-cage match against the forces of bureaucratic might represented by the tidy young woman across the table.

He kept his figurative powder dry, because Hannah was managing. He'd not have thought to simply waive confidentiality, but she had, even though it was her kid in the clutches of the authorities.

"Grace has two skinned knees from where she fell on the blacktop at recess," Hannah said slowly. "She has a fading bruise on the right side of her head from falling off the play station last week. She has both a bruise and a sc.r.a.pe on her elbow, from banging into a tree on the playground."

"Did she tell you how she fell off the play station?" Miss Post asked. "Head injuries can be very serious."

"Another child b.u.mped her."

"Did she give you the child's name?"

"I don't recall. I'm not very familiar with the names of the other second graders."

The worker was writing quickly, not even looking up between questions. "What about the finger bruises on her arm?"

"I didn't know she had finger bruises on her arm. It's December, she's wearing long sleeves, and Grace is old enough to see to herself at bath time."

The worker let out a sigh that to Trent's ears was purely histrionic.

"Here's what we have, Hannah. Your child is cut and bruised, and your explanations are uncorroborated. The school can't vouch for how any of these injuries were received, and right now, we just don't know if this child is safe in your care."

Trent spoke up, unable to stand the theatrics. "What other explanations do you have?"

"What I am afraid we have is a very disturbed little girl." The worker closed the file and addressed herself to the manila folder. "When I asked her how she got the bruises-and I am not supposed to tell you this-she refused to cooperate. She said her mother warned her not to talk to strangers. I could not get a thing out of the child, which is not unusual in cases of familial abuse. Your daughter did tell me her guardian angel was going to have to talk to me if I didn't let her go back to cla.s.s. Then she told me I wouldn't be allowed in the cloud pasture ever if I didn't listen to her."

Now the worker looked up at Hannah. "I am worried this kid is dissociating, and that the discipline she's subjected to at home is causing delusional episodes."

Before Trent could sputter out a response, Hannah spoke up.

"No one who knows her refers to her as Lucy, and you clearly didn't even check the school records to see that she goes by her middle name. You-who don't even know her name-will pet.i.tion the court for permission to shelter her in foster care." Her voice was neutral, eerily so.

"You do know the law," the worker said, then she seemed to come to some internal decision. "Look, Lucy is seven years old, and we have no protective services history on her at all. She's been in school for two years, and day care before that, and no one has reported anything prior to this. Whatever is going on, Hannah, we really do want to see it addressed."

Another theatrical little sigh, and this time her glance took in Trent as well.

"We know your history, Hannah, and if the supervisor learns I told you that, my job is gone." The worker's voice became apologetic. "We know you were a foster child, and some of the homes you were in were investigated for abuse or neglect, and we know from time to time, your foster parents said you had a problem with your temper."

Beside Trent, Hannah's fort.i.tude was crumbling. He could feel it, could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice.

That was the plan, of course. Kelly would be the good cop, the sympathetic ear, the empathetic face of an inst.i.tution that could be cruel in the extreme. The supervisor would be the bad cop, and the roles weren't even planned or rehea.r.s.ed.

"Can't you see your way to allowing Lucy to spend just a few weeks with a foster family?" Kelly asked. "We'll make sure she doesn't have to change schools, and I can probably get you two visits a week, though it will have to be supervised at the Department. All we need is some time to get therapy started for you and the child, do a family a.s.sessment, some drug testing... You want what's best for the child, don't you?"

It sounded so reasonable, so sympathetic, and to Trent, so twisted in a system where everybody was supposed to be presumed innocent until proven guilty.

"Aren't we overlooking something, Miss Post?" Trent asked.

"Sir?"

"Isn't it a requirement of the law that you either demonstrate that shelter was unavoidable to keep the child safe-and in the list of b.u.mps and bruises on this girl, I don't hear anything besides normal childhood wear and tear-or you offer the parent a chance to make a voluntary placement first?"

Trent speared her with a look, informing her silently that he was happy to play endless rounds of Get the Social Worker.

"You have a point, Mr. Knightley," the worker said. "Why don't I get my supervisor in here so we can discuss the options?" She rose and left Trent sitting alone with Hannah, but before he could say anything, his cell rang.

Hannah got up and paced while he took the call.

"Mac says they've already scheduled this case for a hearing at nine thirty tomorrow morning before Judge Stevens. Patlack thought you should at least have the case heard by a judge who doesn't handle the child support docket."

"Sporting of him. You told your brothers what's going on?"

"I told Mac, and he'll fill James in."

Hannah would bristle at that, but she had no concept of the proper use of a family. None but what she and Grace had cobbled together in the last seven years.

Trent's thoughts were interrupted by the return of the social worker, accompanied by an older woman whose gray hair was in a thick braid coiled around her head. She wore gla.s.ses halfway down her nose, and from Hannah's swift, indrawn breath, Trent concluded this supervisor was a ghost from Hannah's past.

"We meet again, Julie," the older woman said, her tone accusing.

"Candace, I believe you know Trent Knightley, and my name was changed by court order."

Candace neither greeted Trent nor looked at him. "Department regulations require that he leave, Julie. Now."

In the years since Trent had seen this woman in the Douglas County courtroom, she'd aged badly. She'd been a line worker, then, a lazy bully, but she'd known to dot her i's and cross her t's.

"Her name is Hannah, or Ms. Stark to you, Candace," Trent said. "Department regulations do not forbid her to waive confidentiality in writing, which she's done. Moreover, your worker concluded the initial interview, though to my mind, it was an oddly abbreviated attempt to get at the truth. Ms. Stark has also been told she may see her child only when you've concluded your interrogation, so if you have further questions, I suggest you ask them. Lucy, as you call her, is overdue for her after-school snack."

Candace lifted a penciled eyebrow at him, and Trent saw in her flat brown eyes the recollection of who he was and where their paths had crossed. Like most bullies, she made a tactical retreat in the face of substantial opposition.

"Let's not beat around the bush, then, Hannah." Candace put a fat file down on the table with a loud smack. "We will ask the court for permission to put your child in foster care tomorrow morning at nine thirty. She'll spend the night in foster care until then. You can consent or object at the hearing tomorrow, and we'll revisit placement in thirty days. It's up to you and your lawyer here if you want to make this more difficult than it has to be."

Trent folded his arms and regarded Candace down the length of his nose.