Toast. This fucker is toast—the burned kind that not even the dog will touch.

I move to the right, blocking Chelsea from his view. “Your wife is a lucky woman.” I shake my head. “You have got some set of balls—”

“Your Honor!” The agency attorney jumps to her feet.

The judge lowers her chin, glaring down. “That comment will cost you five hundred dollars, Mr. Becker. You will maintain proper decorum in my courtroom or your client will be looking for new representation. There won’t be another warning—do I make myself clear?”

Most judges are really low on sense of humor.

“Crystal clear. My apologies.”

Then I set my sights back on Mr. Smeed. “Let’s come back to that later. At the moment, can you tell me if the name Carrie Morgan is familiar to you?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

I pick up a file from the table and glance at its contents. “Three years ago, Carrie, age seven, was taken into the custody of Children and Family Services after her mother was convicted on federal drug charges. She was placed with a foster family, under the supervision of your agency. Six months later, she was dead, from blunt-force trauma to the head. The autopsy found signs consistent with abuse.” I pin him with a stare, my eyes as cold as my voice. “Ring any bells?”

“I’m not familiar with the particulars of that case, no.”

“Hmm. Okay.” I grab another file from the table. “How about Michael Tillings, age fourteen? Are you familiar with his case?”

Smeed shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, I am.”

“Good. Please tell the court, Mr. Smeed, what happened to Michael Tillings.”

“He passed away.”

He’s hedging, digging his heels into the dirt as he’s propelled closer to a cliff he doesn’t want anywhere near. And I’m just the guy to push him over.

“Passed away? That’s a very delicate way of putting it. He was murdered, isn’t that correct? While in a group home, run by CFSA—he was beaten by several other boys at the facility?”

Begrudgingly, he answers. “Yes, we suspect it was gang related.”

“Gang related or not—the boy died. While in your agency’s custody.”

Smeed nods, his eyes flat. “That’s correct.”

I pick up a third file. “Matilda Weiss, age four.”

The opposing attorney pops up like a rodent in Whac-a-Mole. “What does this have to do with Chelsea McQuaid’s competency as a guardian?”

“I’m getting there, Your Honor.”

“Get there quickly, Mr. Becker,” she replies.

“Tell me about the Weiss case, Mr. Smeed—your signature is on her file.”

He rubs his hands on his pants, sniffs, and then answers. “There was an allegation of child abuse against the Weiss family.”

“And you investigated? Visited the home, conducted interviews?”

“Yes.”

“What were your findings?”

He pauses, like he really doesn’t want to answer. But he really doesn’t have a choice.

“I determined there was not sufficient evidence of abuse to warrant action.”

My fingers tingle with unspent energy. “So you closed the case file?”

“Yes.”

“And two months later, what happened?”

“A neighbor found Matilda . . . digging through the garbage. Looking for food.”

“Because her parents were starving her,” I state, my stomach churning.

“Yes.”

“Abusing her—even though you had determined that no such abuse was taking place?”

For the first time he looks me in the eyes, his expression not just strained but guilty. Haunted by the ghosts of lost children and faceless names. “What exactly is your point, Mr. Becker?”

I walk closer. “You said it’s your job to be critical—to determine who is a fit guardian and who is not. So, my point, Dexter, is sometimes you and your agency just flat out get it wrong.”

I let the words hang.

Walking back to the table, I add, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No, I would not.”

“Oh, no?” I lift a box from the floor and place it on the table. “I have a box full of tragic examples that say otherwise. We can do this all day long.”

He stutters. “Every . . . each case is different. Just because . . . circumstances may have been overlooked in one instance doesn’t mean there will be errors in the next one.” He takes a breath, composing himself. “You speak of those children, Mr. Becker, rattle off their names and ages—because they’re just names to you. To me . . . they matter.”

He couldn’t be more fucking wrong. They’re not just names—they’re faces. Riley’s, Rory’s, Rosaleen’s—I saw them all, in every page of those god-awful reports.

“I will do everything in my power not to fail another child under our care.” Smeed taps his finger on the ledge of the witness box. “Which is precisely why the McQuaid children should remain in our custody. The red flags—”

I slap my hand on the table. “Red flags—I’m so glad you brought that up. Let’s talk about them.” My movements are swift and sure as I stalk back and forth in front of him. “You said in your report it was the combination of events that pushed you to remove the McQuaid children from Chelsea’s care?”