"Ms. Hensley, where is the minor?"
My spine stiffens as Hervis Jackson steps into my field of vision. At the back of my mind, I remember him saying in one of our earliest meetings that in case any of the kids were brought to the hospital, he’d know. That didn't even seem like a possibility back then. One of the reasons I hate interacting with him, besides his permanent air of superiority, is that he always throws around words like “guardian,” “minor,” and “case” instead of “sister” and “family.” It's all so cold.
"Where is the minor?" he repeats slowly, as if convinced my IQ level can't comprehend his words.
"They’ve taken her back for a checkup."
"What happened?"
"Car accident, but Chloe wasn’t injured."
"Then why was she brought to the hospital?"
I flex my hands, trying not to ball them into fists. Hervis has the unique ability to make me see red less than five minutes into a conversation.
"It's just a precaution—"
"We're back. The doc cleared both of us. No damage, so we're free to leave," Christopher announces, having just arrived with Chloe. He cocks a brow in Hervis's direction.
Hervis spares Chloe a fleeting glance before focusing on Christopher. "Who are you?" Hervis asks.
"Christopher Bennett," he replies, helping Chloe sit on a chair. "Who are you?"
"Hervis Jackson. I’m the social worker assigned to the Hensley case."
Hearing those damn words again is like a physical punch to my gut.
"And your relationship to the family is?" he continues.
"He's my boyfriend," I reply.
"Were you with the minor and Ms. Hensley when the accident happened?" Hervis asks Christopher.
"Yes, I was the one driving. Victoria wasn't with us."
A heavy silence follows, and I can practically feel the weight of Hervis's disapproval smack me in the face. I feel the need to explain more, though I don’t know what to say. It’s my right to leave the kids with whomever I see fit. Panic slicks through my veins, clouding my judgment.
"I've been around the kids for months. It's not like I'm a stranger," Christopher says, his voice strained. Obviously he feels the same compulsive need to overexplain as I do.
"Were you inebriated?" Hervis inquires.
Christopher, who is standing next to Chloe's seat, goes rigid.
"No."
"Were you under the influence of drugs?"
"No." He squares his shoulders. My gaze automatically lowers to his hands, which he balls into fists. Hervis notices too. I swallow bile, opening my mouth. No words come out, so I merely move over to Chloe's other side, placing an arm around her shoulders.
"Were you past the speed limit?"
"No," Christopher answers through gritted teeth.
"Would your answers remain the same if you were under oath?"
My throat constricts, air escaping me. Chloe tenses under my arm, glancing up at me with confusion, not fear. But I have enough fear for both of us.
"Yes. You can take a look at the police report. The accident was not my fault."