There was even a little side exposé about the Spauldings’ fake essential oils marketing business and a shot of the work room where I had filled and labeled and boxed so many tiny bottles of scented Crisco. The author of the article noted that the Spauldings had been defrauding everyone, from CPS right down to the gullible people who bought into their MLM scheme, for years.
It was all there in black and white with pictures to prove it. But the worst part was where the article talked about how Gary Spaulding raped the female fosters at night and how Nancy turned a blind eye to the sexual abuse of the vulnerable children who had been entrusted to their care. When I read that, I couldn’t help thinking of poor Maria and how many close calls I’d had myself. At that point, the words started blurring and I felt something warm and wet running down my cheeks.
“Oh, honey…” my new caseworker whispered and I actually heard compassion in her voice.
“We were going to ask if this was true,” Principal Higgins murmured. “But I think your reaction speaks for itself, Kira.”
“It’s true—it’s all true,” I whispered, looking up at them and blinking hard to clear the tears from my eyes. “Living with the Spauldings has been a nightmare. But we were too afraid to say anything because we were so sure no one would believe us!” I shook my head. “But I don’t understand…how…?”
“Your foster brother, Nick,” my new caseworker said.
She explained rapidly. It seemed that Nick had been taking pictures around the Spaulding house surreptitiously for some time, methodically documenting the abuse we had all been enduring. He had contacted the same reporter who had done the article on his football prowess. It had taken him some time to get the man to believe him but once he showed the photographic proof, the reporter had at last agreed to tell his story. No, our story, I thought.
So this must have been Nick’s plan all along—the one he refused to give me details on. I understood now why he had wanted to keep it private. It had been a long shot, getting a reporter to believe him and agree to run a piece like this in the paper. A very long shot indeed but somehow Nick, with his indomitable will and charisma, had pulled it off.
“Where is Nick now, though?” I asked, my heart in my throat. “He disappeared yesterday and I haven’t seen him since!”
“He’s been moved to another foster home—one which is willing to keep him until he graduates high school,” my new caseworker said. “Of course, he’s going to be graduating from a different school across the state. And we’re going to be moving you, too. No one can expect you to stay here and endure the scrutiny this article is sure to bring.” She leaned forward, putting a hand on my arm. “Kira, honey, can you tell me if Gary Spaulding…if he ever…”
I shook my head.
“Nick wouldn’t let him,” I whispered. “He tried…tried so many times but Nick protected me.” I looked at her earnestly. “Please—couldn’t I be moved to the same place Nick is now?”
“I’m afraid not, honey,” the caseworker said gently. “But you’re going to a good place—a home for older girls who have been emancipated from their families. You’re going to have a lot of therapy and you’ll get a chance to connect with other girls your age. And there are no men there at all—I promise,” she added. “The group home leaders are all women with no exceptions.”
“But what about Nick?” I demanded. “When am I going to see him again?”
“We understand how close you and Nick were,” Principal Higgins said and his use of the past tense chilled me to the bone. “I’ve seen the two of you together—it’s clear he was a good, protective big brother to you. But now it’s time for both of you to move on with your lives.”
“Move on with our lives?” I exclaimed. “Are…are you saying I’ll never see him again? Ever?”
The principal started to answer but my new caseworker stopped him with a shake of her head.
“Look, Kira, CPS doesn’t usually approve of foster kids keeping in touch with each other when they move on to different homes, but in this case I’m going to make an exception. I’ll give you Nick’s new address so you can write to him—all right?”
It was about as good as I was going to get—I could see that right away. I wanted to beg for his phone number instead or some other way to contact him, but I could see the implacability in her eyes. The best I could do was write him a letter and hope that he answered me.
So I wrote…and wrote and wrote and wrote. I must have sent him a dozen letters to his new address before I finally got one in return. It simply said,