Page 87

I glance toward the men who are all on high alert. Boone and Jonah look ready for battle. Finn gives me the smallest nod of encouragement to answer the woman’s question.

I swallow hard and answer. “A few weeks.”

“And what is your relationship to the child?”

“Friend,” I say. “I’m…I’ve been helping care for her.”

“Are you related?”

“No.”

“Are you a certified caregiver?”

I shake my head. “No.”

She nods and jots something down.

“Have you ever received mental health treatment?”

The air leaves my lungs.

“That’s personal,” Finn says, stepping forward, but I stop him with a hand to his arm.

I answer because I know if I don’t, it’ll look worse. “I’ve spoken to therapists before. For anxiety. But I’ve never been hospitalized or put on medication. I’ve never been a danger to myself or anyone else.”

She hums and makes another note.

The questions keep coming.

Have you had any formal childcare training?

Have you ever been reported for neglect or endangerment?

Have you ever been the subject of a custody or guardianship dispute?

Each question is making me more and more anxious. My hands are clasped tightly in front of me. I flex each finger once, twice, then press my thumbs together. I don’t unclasp them. If I do, I might start wringing my hands or twisting my shirt, and I know how that looks.

The woman’s eyes don’t waver. “Are you currently employed?”

I hesitate. “No. I mean not outside of caring for Mae.”

“Do you contribute to the household financially?”

“No.”

Another note.

“Have you ever had thoughts of harming yourself or others?”

“No.”

“Have you ever acted on those thoughts?”

“There are no thoughts to act on.”

I answer honestly as I feel the panic crawling up the back of my neck.

Her pen finally stops moving. She lets us know that she’ll complete her report and will likely need to follow up. And then she’s gone.