Little Lamb Lost Read Online Free Page A

already today, and I thought I’d
done everything right. Still, my palms were sweating. I wiped them subtly on my
pants.  
    For the next three and half hours the
team dissected the case. I felt like I was being interrogated; the only thing
missing was a bright spotlight shining in my eyes. Both attorneys took notes as
I answered question after question. They scrutinized every form, every
narrative, every court report, and every court order. We discussed the timeline
of the case, Michael’s birth and health history, and Ashley’s past. I’d missed
only two objectives during the years I’d worked with the family and everyone
agreed they were minor oversights. The representative from the state office
requested a copy of the entire chart.
    When the meeting was over, Dr. Pope
concluded with, “I’ll be making a statement to the press that we don’t comment
on investigations. We’ll try to keep names out of it if we can. I can’t promise
that though. Claire, I don’t have to remind you that you’re not to comment on
this, either, right? No matter how ugly it gets.”
    “I know.”
    I had a pounding headache. It was four
thirty. Russell was out on a home visit. I picked up the phone, hung it up, and
called it a day.
    Outside hunkered satellite vans from
both the FOX and ABC affiliates. Any death of a child would be picked up by the
press on the police scanners. From there it only took a phone call to a source
or one of the victim’s family members to find out whether DHS was involved. Our
cases were supposed to be kept confidential, but it didn’t always work that
way. If Michael’s death was an accident, we’d be the feature story tonight and
the whole thing would blow over. If my brewing fears were true and Ashley had a
role in Michael’s death, then this was only the beginning. If the slightest
hint existed that DHS could have prevented this, every news outlet was going to
play that angle. The public would demand that someone take the fall, and the
blame game was the media’s favorite sport. Too much bad press and I’d be gone
faster than a losing Alabama football coach. And maybe Mac too. Maybe even Dr.
Pope. I’d seen it happen before. DHS had been in the spotlight before for some
poorly handled cases, and it seemed like reporters were always waiting for us
to screw things up.
    A familiar-looking reporter from FOX
bounced on the balls of his feet and swung his arms in impatience, waiting to
broadcast live for the five o’clock news. As I sneaked to my car, he spotted
me. I sped up, racing to my Honda and slamming the door in his face just as he
cried, “Hey!” I threw the car in reverse and backed up recklessly, speeding to
the exit of the lot.
    My headache intensified. In crawling
traffic I made my way to the on-ramp of I-65, and for the next forty minutes
did what the locals called the sixty-five shuffle: the long, slow drive to the
suburban communities south of downtown.
    I exited the interstate at the summit of
Shades Mountain and wound through serpentine streets to my neighborhood. I’d
bought a small house in Bluff Park only four months earlier, after years of
saving and months of searching for the right place. Built in 1953, it needed a
lot of updating. I spent every spare hour away from work fixing it up myself.
So far I’d peeled acres of stubborn wallpaper and polished the hardwood.
Tonight I planned to work on the small bedroom I was converting into an office,
painting it a soft yellow. Normally I relished the thought of changing into my
paint-splattered T-shirt and shorts and loading up the roller, but right now it
just seemed like work.
    I pulled into my carport and sat there,
trying to force myself to go inside and watch the news. I didn’t want to hear
what they had to say. After a couple of minutes with my throbbing forehead on
the steering wheel, I backed out and drove toward Shades Crest Road. Within
five minutes I parked in the driveway of the sprawling red-brick, ranch-style
house