CHAPTER ONE

FRANKIE DROPPED the newspaper on her desk at FreeZone and saw the headline: Douglas Bascombe New Chief of DCFS. As she set the bag of tacos down and stowed her tote in a drawer, she wondered why she hadn’t heard about the change before now. FreeZone, her after-school center for at-risk teens, had occasional contact with the Division of Children and Family Services. One of its social workers was a friend.

She probably hadn’t heard because she rarely had time to actually read a newspaper. She had a free hour today only because the bakery had hired an extra worker and they’d finished early.

She unwrapped her first bean-and-corn taco and began to read as she ate. “Social worker who rose through the ranks.” “Longtime employee.” Yada yada. In other words, a bureaucrat.

Frankie and the previous DCFS head had worked together well, so she didn’t anticipate problems with Bascombe.

She thumbed through the paper, reading the articles, relishing the luxury of a little downtime. Her kids would be here in less than an hour, and so would her new community-service person. The football player. She didn’t have high expectations for him, but he could no doubt clean the place and play basketball with the boys. That would suit her fine. As long as he didn’t try to take over. The last CS person she’d had had tried to organize her office.

As Frankie turned the next page, she found the rest of the article about the new DCFS director. She didn’t need to read it—she knew exactly what it would say. She glanced at the picture, though, wondering if she’d ever met the guy.

Taco filling landed on the newspaper in a smear of beans, corn and sauce. Her stomach twisted into a tight, hard knot. Oh, my God.

Dave.

Doug Bascombe was Dave.

One picture in the newspaper and she was right back in that room—with the terror, the fear, the revulsion. The violation.

The man who had assaulted her in juvie was now the head of DCFS.

Her stomach heaved, and she raced to the washroom just in time. After vomiting everything she’d eaten and more, she slumped on the tile floor next to the toilet. Her head ached and her hands shook.

Finally, she struggled to her feet, rinsed out her mouth and splashed cold water on her face. The kids would be arriving soon. She couldn’t let them find her like this.

She wobbled back to her office, dumped the rest of her lunch in the garbage and stared at the picture. He was older, but there was no doubt Bascombe was Dave.

A social worker who molested the kids he worked with.

Now in charge of the entire agency that dealt with abused, neglected and abandoned children.

She wrapped her arms around herself. She had to do something. She had to make sure he couldn’t hurt any more children.

She had to make sure everyone knew what a monster he was.

The front door opened, and she heard kids talking. Laughing as they walked in. Frankie closed her eyes and struggled to calm herself. She couldn’t do anything about Bascombe right now. And she couldn’t let the kids see how upset she was. She took a deep breath to regain her composure. Another. Plastered a smile on her face and stepped out of her office.

Only to see that she had another, more urgent problem. The kids stood in a circle around three boys. One was Ramon, a former member of the Insane Street Vipers gang. The others were Speedball and T-Man, two of his former associates in the gang.

Why today?

Why couldn’t she have an easy day, with no problems and no drama?

She strode toward the crowd.

***

CAL ROLLED HIS TRUCK to a stop in front of FreeZone. The name on the building was unevenly painted in shades of green, blue and yellow, and drips of paint dotted the glass beneath the letters.

Blinds covered the windows, but it looked as if the building had started life as a supermarket. There weren’t many of those in the Manor neighborhood anymore.

There wasn’t much of anything here besides liquor stores, currency exchanges and bars.

It was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

He slipped on his sunglasses as he stepped out of the Escalade, and car doors slammed behind him. He waved to the reporters, waiting for them to crowd around.

“Cal, how do you feel about being sentenced to a hundred hours of community service?” one of them asked.

Pissed off was how he felt. He smiled easily. “FreeZone is going to get every bit of my effort until I’ve paid my debt to society.”

Another reporter shoved a microphone beneath his nose. “With all the time you have to spend here, will you be ready for training camp?”

Cal smiled at the Chicago Cougars beat reporter for the Herald Times. “FreeZone is open three hours every day. Other than that, I’ll be at Cougars Hall, just like every day since my surgery.” Until he made a deal with the woman who ran this place. Frankie Devereux would let him out of his community service if the price was right, and Cal would make sure it was. Then he’d be at Cougars Hall all day. “The doctors say I’m good to go, and I’m looking forward to getting back on the field in six weeks.”

“So your knee is as good as new? You’ll be the starting strong safety for the Cougars?” the first reporter asked.

“That’s the plan.” He waved to the journalists as he headed for the door. “Got to go. The sooner I start, the sooner I’ll be back at Cougars Hall full-time.”

“You got off pretty easily with just community service for that fight,” a young woman called as he reached the door. “Have you heard from the commissioner? Are you going to be suspended for any games?”

“Haven’t heard anything about that.” He smiled, thankful for the sunglasses. “That’s up to the commissioner. Take care, guys.” He yanked open the door and stepped inside.

As the door clicked shut behind him, his easy camaraderie dropped away like a shrugged-off coat. Tension swirled in the air of the huge, mostly empty space. Fifteen or twenty teens of both genders milled around, the boys shuffling their feet, calling out to a group of four others who were standing off to the side.

Cal zeroed in on the four.

The three kids facing him were stocky and muscular, with identical soul patches beneath their lower lips. Two wore red baseball caps, brims turned to the side. The aggression in their faces made the back of his neck tingle and had him shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

The fourth teenager was a lot smaller, with short dark hair, slightly baggy pants and a ragged-looking tank top. From behind, he appeared to be facing down the three bigger kids.

The place smelled like cake, disinfectant and fear.

A couple of boys in the group of spectators spotted Cal and whooped. “Look at that big dude. He can kick your ass, Ramon, and your friends, too,” one called.

Without looking at them, the smallest of the four kids said, “That’s enough.” His low voice snapped over the others like a whip. “Everyone sit at the homework tables. Now.”

Although he didn’t turn his head or speak loudly, his words carried the ring of authority. The mass of youths hesitated, nervous energy flowing from one to the next. Funny that one of their peers would have so much authority, but it didn’t matter how big he talked. Each of the three guys he was facing outweighed him by fifty or sixty pounds.

The mass of teens shifted, and Cal gathered himself to intervene. This was the moment when everything could go to hell.

Finally, they began drifting toward a cluster of tables in the far corner. Two boys hung back, circling behind the other four. “Hey, Ramon, what are you gonna do?” One boy danced forward and nudged the kid standing in the middle. “You staying here? You going?”

“Gotta choose, dude,” the other one said as he toed a basketball off the floor and began dribbling effortlessly.

Where the hell was the woman who was supposed to be running this place? As Cal made his way toward the four teens, the smallest one said, “Ramon, did you invite these guys here?”

“No, man,” the boy without the red cap said. “I don’t want nothing to do with them.” He glanced at the other two and his eyes flickered. The speculative expression in them disappeared so quickly Cal wondered if it had been there at all.

The short kid crossed his arms across his chest and stepped closer, somehow seeming taller. “T-Man, Speedball, you’re not welcome here. Get out. Now.”

“We just want to talk to Ramon,” one of them said, smirking.

Short Guy took another step. “You’re not going to do it here.”

The two red caps stood their ground, and Ramon backed away. Cal frowned. But he wouldn’t interfere unless it was absolutely necessary.

A murmur rippled through the kids clustered around the table. All of them were standing. The two closer ones glanced at the short kid uneasily. Were they afraid for him?

Every football player knew when a scene was turning ugly, and Cal’s antennae were twitching.

He strode toward the group of four, flexing his hands. He wanted to grab and throw. Toss the bullies to the side. But he’d stay cool. Unless they gave him grief.

When he reached them, he grasped the cloth of the short kid’s tank top and yanked him back. Cal’s arm brushed the kid’s side, which felt softer than a typical teenage boy’s. Even worse that these three were threatening him.

Cal braced himself on splayed legs and looked from one to the other. “You boys have been asked to leave.” He held their gaze. “You going on your own, or do you need help?”

One of the two red caps, reeking of sweat and stale cigarette smoke, said, “You gonna make us?”

“If I have to.”

The mouthy guy nudged his buddy. “He thinks he can take us,” he said, giggling.

The kid’s pupils were dilated. He was high. Cal checked the other one, and found his eyes were ink-black, too.

Shit.

As Cal gathered himself, the boy behind him tried to step forward. He collided with the arm Cal instinctively stuck out. More softness bumped his forearm. Then the kid elbowed him and shoved Cal’s arm aside.

“Stop this right now.” The kid wasn’t a boy. She was a slender young woman who vibrated with intensity. His new boss, probably. Frankie something.

Cal didn’t care.

He stepped in front of her again. “Bring it on, shitheads.”

The two exchanged a look, then charged. Cal held up his hands, palms out, and the teens stumbled as they ran into them. While they were off balance, he grabbed them by the backs of their shirts, lifted them off the floor and held them out to the side.

As they kicked and flailed, the kids behind him hooted. “Where you running to, Speedball?” one yelled, making the rest laugh. Speedball, on his left, punched wildly.

As Cal carried them toward the door, Frankie shouted, “Put them down. Right now.”

“Gladly. As soon as they’re out of here.”

A whiff of citrus was his only warning before Frankie curled her fingers around his right biceps. “Let go of them.”

Ignoring her, Cal pushed the door open with his hip. As he stepped into the sunlight, the reporters surged forward. He should have known they wouldn’t have left yet. Cameras clicked and microphones appeared in front of his face. The sound of voices yelling his name barely registered.

The kids stumbled when Cal dropped them. Then they shoved past the throng blocking their way, and a camera hit the sidewalk with a splintering thud. Cal watched until the two disappeared around a corner.

“What was that all about, Cal?” one reporter shouted. “Who were those kids, and what did they do?”

“They just needed a little help out the door,” Cal said. He waved again as he turned to go back inside. Instead of the door closing behind him, though, he felt a puff of air as it opened wider.

“No reporters or photographers are allowed in here,” Frankie said as she scrambled to her feet.

Cal froze. Crap. Had he knocked her over?

He reached to help her up, but she shook off his hand. Brushing off the seat of her pants, she stood in front of the door, blocking the reporters’ entry. His new boss might be small, but she was definitely tough. “I have the police on speed dial.” She pulled a phone out of her pocket and held it up, staring at the group in front of her. Her finger hovered over a button.

Everyone watched Frankie and the phone. Her finger trembled, then she pressed the button.

The reporters backed out the door, grumbling. When it clicked shut, Cal’s boss watched him as she held the phone to her ear. “Hey, Don,” she said. “We had a little trouble with a couple of Ramon’s friends and there are a bunch of reporters outside the door. I don’t want things to get out of hand.”

She listened for a moment, then said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.” She snapped the phone closed.

Then she took a deep breath and turned to the rest of the kids. “All right, everyone. Show’s over.” Her voice was strained.

She pointed at Cal. “You. Stay right here.”

The kids all glanced at him, pity in their eyes. As if he was supposed to be afraid of a woman less than half his size? Then chatter resumed and the tension eased. The boy with the basketball went back to dribbling. Several of the kids near the tables sat down. The rest remained standing in small groups, their voices rising and falling as they rehashed the confrontation.

Without another glance in Cal’s direction, Frankie cut two sniffling girls out of the herd, draped her arms across their shoulders and steered them toward the opposite corner of the room. Three couches, two of them ugly flowery things and one dark brown, all of them shabby, were arranged in a U shape. Two worn, mismatched chairs completed a square.

The other furnishings in the place weren’t any better. Cal’s guess about the supermarket history of the space had been right. An old deli case stood against the back wall, now holding what looked like a bakery box. The other corners were also used for equipment, but the area in the center was wide open.

In one corner, the boy with the basketball shot with single-minded concentration. The few pieces of netting remaining on the hoop swished with every basket.

Beside that small court was a scratched and dented Ping-Pong table. A basket of balls and four paddles rested on top, and a paperback propping up one of the legs made it mostly level.

An air-hockey table and a foosball game were in the third corner. Battered and scarred, both looked as if they’d had a hard life.

At the cluster of tables and chairs in the last corner, Ramon sat by himself. The other kids had chosen seats as far away from him as possible.

Frankie sat down on one of the couches, a girl on either side of her. She leaned close and talked to them for a minute, and the girls wiped their faces with the backs of their hands. When one of them smiled shakily, Frankie squeezed her shoulder and stood up.

And headed toward him.

“Hey, I’m sorry I knocked you down,” he said as she approached.

“Don’t worry about it. I assume you’re Caleb Stewart, our community-service person. Let’s talk in the office.”

“I guess you’re Frankie Devereux.”

“Yes,” she said evenly. She glanced at a group of kids who were clustering close.

“I thought you were one of the kids at first.”

“You were wrong.” Her dismissive gaze flicked over him, as if he’d just confirmed her assumptions about stupid jocks.

He clenched his teeth as he smiled. “I can see that now. I guess I was too busy trying to save your ass to take a good look earlier.”

The boys watched him with shocked awe, as if no one ever spoke to her like that. The girls gave him sidelong glances and tried to talk to Frankie at the same time. One girl hung on her shoulder, and Frankie absently wrapped an arm around her and gave her a hug while listening to another.

She let the girl go and narrowed her gaze at Cal. But before he could speak, she said over her shoulder, “If you guys can’t agree who plays first, find a fourth to play doubles.”

What the heck was she talking about? Then Cal saw three boys standing around the Ping-Pong table hunch their shoulders and stop arguing. “Sorry, Ms. Devereux,” one of them said in a soft Southern accent. They called to the boy shooting baskets, who let the ball bounce into the corner as he joined them.

She resumed talking to the girls, and her low, smoky voice was soothing. Reassuring, if you were a teenage girl. Which Cal wasn’t. Why on earth had he thought that husky voice belonged to a boy?

Frankie Devereux wasn’t what he’d expected.

He’d figured someone running a teen center would be older. Matronly. The last thing he’d say about Devereux’s short, slender body. But her resemblance to the uptown trixies he usually spent time around ended there.

Frankie’s cargo pants were frayed at the hem and a little too big for her. When she’d walked away, he’d noticed a tiny tear just below a back pocket—too small to be revealing, but big enough to catch his eye. Her black tank top was faded and one strap was held together with a safety pin. She had three piercings in one ear and two in the other. Her black hair was short and tousled-looking, as if she’d brushed it once in the morning and forgot about it.

Clearly, she hadn’t dressed to attract attention. So why couldn’t he drag his gaze away from her?

“Over here,” she said, walking away without looking back. She headed toward the front corner of the place, and he saw a door not too far from the air-hockey game.

He followed her into a closet-size room and saw a desk covered with papers, two rickety bookshelves filled to overflowing and a chair with only one arm. He closed the door behind him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” She stood with her hands on her hips, practically vibrating, her bright blue eyes sharp enough to slice through him.

“I was thinking that things were going to explode and that someone needed to stop it. Those two punks were about to pounce.”

Frankie studied him for a long moment, and he shifted his weight. “Appearances can be deceiving, Mr. Stewart. I had that situation under control.” She sounded completely confident, as if those two gang members had been five-year-olds.

Oddly off balance, he said the first thing he could think of. “Are you kidding me? Those guys were twice your size.”

It was as if those bright blue eyes of hers saw all the way into his soul and zeroed in on what was missing. “Is brute force the only way you know to control things?”

“I suppose you were going to talk them out the door.”

“That’s exactly what I was going to do.” Frankie sank onto the edge of the desk and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said, “I so do not need this today. You’re probably not the right person for community service at FreeZone. Our first rule here is no violence. You broke that one before you introduced yourself.”

“I was reacting to a threat,” Cal said stiffly.

Before she could respond, there was a sharp knock at the office door. “Frankie? You okay?”

She sprang off the desk and opened the door. A tall, solidly built police officer stood there, his dark eyes zeroing in on Cal. Measuring. Assessing.

“I’m fine, Don. Thanks for getting here so quickly.” She motioned him into the already crowded room. “This is Caleb Stewart. He’s supposed to do his community service at FreeZone. Mr. Stewart, this is Officer Wilson. He’s the patrol officer for our neighborhood.”

The one she had on speed dial. Cal reached for his hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you.”

“So, what happened here, Frankie?” the police officer asked, studying Cal.

“Two of Ramon’s buddies came in and said they wanted to talk to him. I told them to get out. They were about ready to leave when Mr. Stewart showed up. He grabbed them by their collars and tossed them out the door.”

“Shouldn’t do that,” Wilson said to him matter-of-factly. “They’ll charge you with assault.”

“They were threatening her,” Cal said, incredulous.

“Just saying.” Wilson shrugged. “You have a record. The judge wouldn’t like it if you got arrested again.”

“Screw the judge. I’m not going to stand by and let a couple of punks rough up a woman.”

Wilson stared at him, and Cal shifted his feet wider and flexed his hands as he stared back. Suddenly, Frankie was between them.

“Don, we’re okay now, but thanks for coming by. Why don’t you go have a cupcake?”

Wilson held Cal’s gaze for another moment, then turned to Frankie and smiled. “You know my weakness.”

The police officer’s vest made him appear even more imposing as he walked away. As he headed toward the kids, they crowded around him, clamoring for his attention.

“Do they always talk at the same time like that?” Cal asked, trying to ease the tension in the tiny room. “It sounds like electric drills boring into my head.”

She glanced at the group of kids milling around Don. “Yes, that’s what groups of teenagers do. Don’t you remember?”

“I never did that,” he said, his voice flat. He’d played sports as a teen, and his life had been all about discipline and obedience.

His father had made sure he didn’t have free time to hang with other kids.

“I’m not sure this is going to work out,” Frankie said after a long moment. “Let’s see how it goes today, and we’ll talk after the kids leave.”

Not work out? He couldn’t let that happen. “As it happens, I have a proposal for you.”

“What would that be—” Heading out of the office, she stopped so abruptly that Cal almost bumped into her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Those reporters are still out there.” The outlines of their figures were visible through the blinds. She whirled to face him. “They came with you, didn’t they?”

“They just showed up,” he said.

“Get rid of them.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I’m not their boss.”

“And how did they know you were going to be here today?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe they read the transcript from the trial.”

She folded her arms. “Cut the crap, Mr. Stewart. I know FreeZone wasn’t mentioned in the transcript.”

Watching him steadily, Frankie evoked memories of the nuns in grade school who’d given him the stink eye. He barely managed to keep from squirming. “Okay, maybe I told one guy.”

“And now you can tell all of them to leave. I don’t want to see them again.”

“Not possible.” Sweat pooled in the small of Cal’s back. “I need them. I need to keep my face in the news. I’m going to be… I’ll have competition at training camp in six weeks. I have to shape my publicity.”

“You can shape it into a pretzel for all I care. But you’re not doing it here.”

.