Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

short-term foster care.
    I used the time to put my affairs in order. When I returned to Cleveland, I quit my job at BioTek, which was timed well, because Bowman was probably about to fire me anyway. Jeannie offered me five hundred dollars and a session at her swanky hair salon if I’d take Johnny Paycheck’s approach and tell Bowman to “take this job and shove it” during his weekly staff meeting. She’d throw in a manicure if I’d smack my ass on my way out the door. Instead, I wrote a polite letter explaining my unanticipated family changes and expressed regrets for not providing two-weeks’ notice. My colleagues took me out to lunch and presented a gift certificate for Toys R Us.
    Movers came and loaded the essentials onto a truck. I left the remainder behind, in my house, where Jeannie would live rent-free until my indefinite return. Meanwhile, I’d be in Texas, taking baby steps to forge a relationship with a little girl who might never call me Mom.
    When the test results came back, and the Fletchers couldn’t produce a signed waiver of my rights, I received full legal and physical custody of Annette. Yet, what joy is in an outcome that breaks your child’s heart?
    My relationship with the Fletchers was tenuous to say the least, but we shared a genuine interest in what was best for Annette. We attended family counseling together and agreed to cooperate while transitioning our little girl. They’d been told Annette was from an abusive family. The operative who handled their case went so far as to produce falsified medical records. In their desperation to have a child, and their sympathy for mine, they looked the other way when details of their adoption process were sketchy and hurried. The adoption, they said, had been surprisingly quick, but they’d attributed that to the higher “agency fees” they’d paid. Neither seemed the type to knowingly commit a felony. It was obvious the same crime that had broken my heart was now breaking theirs.
    Not surprisingly, Kurt was less forthcoming with details of Annette’s most recent abduction, but between Betsy Fletcher’s story and Annette’s account, we formed a reasonable idea about how he’d pulled that off. On the day Annette was kidnapped from their home, Betsy opened the door to a telephone company worker without a thought. He forced himself inside and took Annette, then shoved her into the back of a phone company van waiting in driveway. Betsy ran to grab her cell phone and car keys and tried to follow them as she called 9-1-1, but it wouldn’t matter. Annette was switched to a new car a few blocks away. The man who’d snatched her “peeled the pictures off the side of his van” before driving it away. Clement’s team figured the only reason Betsy hadn’t been shot on sight was because Trish was planning to ransom Annette back after leaving me dead in the woods.
    The Fletchers urged me to consider letting Annette make a gradual transition into my care. I supported the sentiment, but told them outright that I wouldn’t risk losing her again. If the FBI thought they might flee with her, why should I believe differently?
    I rented an apartment two miles from their home and Annette moved in with me. It wasn’t the ideal situation for anyone, but I think the Fletchers appreciated my efforts. They sent over many of her favorite things, including a green pair of sneakers and a stuffed giraffe named Georgina. We had dinner as a foursome most nights, at their house or mine, and spent much of our weekend time together too. I resented the ever-present third and fourth wheels, but needed them. I didn’t know Annette was afraid of spiders or that she’d only eat spaghetti if there were no meatballs. Without Betsy to translate and explain my daughter to me, our reunion would have been a clumsy mess. We’d both suffered the terror of losing our little girl and, if nothing else, those experiences bonded us in empathy. Eventually, I realized I had nothing to fear in the Fletchers.
    “My mommy said there was a mistake when I was a baby,” Annette said one afternoon in March. We were playing Crazy Eights. She had a milk mustache and too many cards for her small fingers to manage. A jack flopped onto the kitchen table.
    “What kind of mistake?”
    “Somebody was supposed to give Mommy a baby who needed a new family. But I didn’t need a new family.”
    I set down my cards.
    “That’s true,” I said. “I’ve always been your mommy. And I would