Sampson settled his bear-size frame across from us and clasped his hands on the table. It took him a second to figure out what he wanted to say, or at least, how he wanted to start.

“Let me give you a hypothetical,” he said. “Suppose there’s some guy pressing charges against someone else—charges he knows are false. And say this guy’s gone to some lengths to set that person up, and make life difficult. Maybe he even breaks the law to get it done, but no one can prove it.”

“Okay,” I said. We were obviously talking about Guidice—but also not talking about Guidice. I knew enough to keep my mouth shut and follow John’s lead for the moment. “Go on.”

“I’m thinking that sort of guy might have a few skeletons in his closet,” Sampson said. “The kind that don’t show up on a regular background check.”

I noticed Bree was sitting very still, not saying a word.

“What kind of skeletons?” I said.

Sampson leaned back and shrugged. “Drug habit? Bad debt? I don’t know, maybe he’s sleeping with his best friend’s wife. But just for the sake of argument, let’s say someone else finds out about it. Someone like me, for instance. That kind of information might be used to make a person reconsider these charges he’s pressing. And maybe that makes life a little easier for the other guy. Him, and his family.”

“Jesus, John,” I said. If I weren’t so on the rack about all this, the pretense might have almost seemed funny. “I couldn’t ask you to do something like that—”

“If we were even talking about it,” John said. “Which we’re not. But just for the record, Alex, you have asked me to do that kind of thing before. More than once.”

“Yeah, when I’m in on it,” I said. “This is different.”

Finally, Bree spoke up. Her voice was low, and I got the impression she’d been expecting this.

“My two cents?” she said. “I don’t think John would have come over here if he didn’t want to.”

“That’s true,” Sampson told me.

I believed him, but it was also true that Sampson would do anything for us. The same way I’d do anything for him. That’s not always a good thing. This was John’s career we were talking about.

“I don’t know, Sampson,” I said.

“But I do,” Bree told me. “There’s a lot at stake here, Alex, and you’re right in the middle of it. Let me call this one. Please.”

When I looked into her eyes, I saw something else. There was something she wasn’t saying—and I finally got the whole picture. Unless I was very much mistaken, this wasn’t just John’s idea. Bree had asked him to come over tonight.

I still felt conflicted about it all, but she was right. There was a lot at stake here, either way. I was the one with the restraining order, and they were doing whatever they could to protect me—but also Ava.

Under other circumstances, I might have also still been caught up on the loss Guidice himself had incurred, back in 2007. But he’d trumped that issue the minute he’d started messing with my family.

So instead of saying anything else, I just stood up from the table and started back inside.

“I’m going to finish helping Jannie with her homework,” I said. “You two come on in when you’re done talking.”

CHAPTER

72

BY THE END OF THE NEXT DAY, WE WERE FINALLY PERMITTED TO GO VISIT Ava. Sampson’s wife, Billie, was nice enough to come over and watch the kids, while Nana, Bree, and I drove up to Quarles Street in Northeast.

The home where Ava had been placed was on the fringes of one of the city’s worst neighborhoods. It was a converted single-family house, called Howard House now. They had twelve girls living there, along with a house manager, a pair of overnight staff, and a couple of part-time counselors.

I don’t expect miracles from the city, and I’ve got plenty of respect for the job these people are up against. Still, I had to keep my feelings in check as we walked up the cracked sidewalk and rang the bell.

Inside, the place reminded me of a few of my college apartments. The furniture was old and mismatched, with a threadbare wall-to-wall carpet that looked like it had been new sometime in the seventies.

Several young women were hanging out in front of the TV in the living room, watching Judge Judy on a wall-mounted TV. I could hear cooking sounds from farther back, and half of a phone conversation, at full volume, from somewhere upstairs.

“Yes, I did. Nuh-uh! Don’t start, Lamar. Don’t even start with that shit!”

The truth was, Ava could be just as street as the next girl. I had no doubt she could stand up for herself, and even hold her own in a fight, if it came to that. But it made me sadder than I could say to know she was living here now. Just looking at Nana and Bree, I could tell they felt the same way.

Eventually, a middle-aged woman in braids came out from the back, drying her hands on a dish towel. The T-shirt over her enormous bosom had a portrait of James Baldwin, one of Nana’s favorites. I chose to take that as a good sign—our first one of the day.

“Can I help you?” she said.

“We’re here to see Ava Williams,” I told her.

The woman threw the towel over her shoulder. “And you are?”

“We’re her family,” Nana said. There was a little edge of stress in her voice.

“Her foster family,” Bree added quietly.

“Stephanie Gethmann from Child and Family Services said we could see her today after five,” I told her.

The woman nodded and took a deep breath. I imagine she took a lot of deep breaths, in her job.

“Ava’s had some issues today,” she finally said. “Now’s not a good time. Maybe you could come back tomorrow.”

“Is she here?” Bree eyeballed the open staircase, where the loud phone talker was on her way down.

“Damn, Lamar, what you want from me?” she said into her cell, but then stopped between us and the woman we were talking to. “Can I go to the store?”

The woman held up five fingers, as in, you’ve got five minutes to be back. The girl continued out the door and down the steps, cursing Lamar the whole way.

“Sorry,” the woman said. She stepped out of the foyer and into the empty dining room, which I guess was the closest thing to privacy around here. “Anyway—no. Ava’s not here right now.”

“What kind of issues are we talking about?” Bree said. “Is she hurt?”

“She’ll be fine,” the woman said.

“Is she high?” Bree asked.

At that the woman paused, and looked me in the eye instead of Bree. “I really can’t talk about it,” she said.

“She’s high,” Bree said. “Unbelievable. Two days here and she’s using again.”

I tried to step in before Bree’s or Nana’s temper got us into trouble.

“We can help, if you’ll let us,” I said. “How about if we wait for her?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Visiting hours are over at seven, and she won’t be back until later. You should really call first.”

There didn’t seem to be anything more we could do. For a minute we all just stood there, not wanting to leave. It was incredibly disappointing.

“Well, you give her this,” Nana said between clenched teeth. She handed over the tin she’d brought, filled with her homemade brownies and Ava’s favorite butterscotch candies. “I want every single one of those to get to Ava. Do you understand?”

“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll make sure she gets them.”

“Hey, lady, what’s that?” someone called out from the living room. “Something good?”

“Shee-it, nobody be bringing me nothing. Who those people here to see, anyway?”

Nana looked over her shoulder. “You watch your mouth, young lady,” she said. Then she reached over and took the tin out of the manager’s hands. “I changed my mind. We’ll bring these tomorrow,” she said.

The manager was doing her best, she really was. I don’t know anyone in the child welfare system who isn’t overworked, underpaid, and underappreciated.