Little Lamb Lost by Margaret Fenton

apartment to my new house four months ago. Nice of them, but I had no
illusions that it had been anything less than another step in Royanne’s
continuing conspiracy to get me married.
    “What about him?”
    “He wants your number.”
    I tried to remember what he looked like.
I knew he was a deliveryman for the bottling plant, like Toby. Red hair and
freckles came to mind. And he had massive muscles. Like Howdy Doody on
steroids.
    “Oh, Howdy Doody,” I muttered.
    “What?”
      “I said, oh, hallelujah.”
    “No need to get sarcastic. If you don’t
want to go out with him, just say so.”
    “I don’t want to go out with him.”
    “Why?”
    “Because.”
    “That’s not an answer.”
    “Yes, it is. I’ve seen you use it with
your kids.”
    “That’s different.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s what I say when I don’t
feel like explaining.”
    “There you have it.”
    “He’s a nice guy.”
    “I’m sure he is. I just don’t want to go
out with him. My life is hell right now, and it’s only going to get worse. The
last thing I need is a blind date.” Or any date. Not that I didn’t want to get
married. Someday. And have kids. But my history with men lately consisted of
one disaster after another. None of them were capable of understanding my work
schedule, accusing me of neglecting our relationship when a crisis situation
kept me out all night. As if I wouldn’t rather be spending time with them
instead of rearranging some child’s life forever.
    Royanne said, “Okay, okay. I’ll figure
out something to tell Bo.”
    Our usual waiter, Pablo, brought our
lunches, and I managed to work up enough of an appetite to finish a chicken
taco. Royanne entertained me with stories about her six-year-old, Alicia, who
was always doing something funny. By the time lunch was over, I felt better.
    I had thirty-seven phone messages to
return that afternoon. The first three were routine work stuff. The fourth got
my attention.
    “Ashley’s in jail because of you, bitch.
What happened to your tires is gonna happen to you.” The message ended. It was
a man’s voice, low and rough. Not one I recognized. This wasn’t the first time
I’d been threatened, nor would it be the last, assuming after all this was over
I got to keep my job. Usually my clients said what they had to say, and that was
the end of it.
    But this message was a little different.
Maybe because my tires had already been cut. That showed he, whoever he was,
was serious. I was mad, but I also felt a little prickle of fear in my gut. I
buzzed Mac and he came over to our cubicle to listen to the message. He’d
document it, but beyond that there wasn’t much he could do. The State of
Alabama had yet to spring for caller ID, so there was no way to know where the
call had come from.
    I had a sneaking suspicion it was Flash.
I remembered his harassing phone calls to Ashley during the first days of her
stay at St. Monica’s. This was definitely his MO. While it was possible the
message could have come from anyone angry about Michael’s death, that kind of
anger was usually directed at the agency, not at me personally. After all, only
a few people knew I was Michael’s social worker. Flash was one of them.
    After Mac left, I went back to the rest
of my messages. Three of them were from Michael’s former foster parents,
devastated about what happened and wanting to know if there was anything they
could do. I told them to contact Nona, then picked up the phone to call her
myself.   
    The secretary connected me immediately.
“Nona Richardson.”
    “It’s Claire. How’re you holding up?”
    “That’s the question I was going to ask
you.”
    “I’m okay.”
    “I was gonna call you this afternoon.
Cheyenne left this morning.”
    Not that I was surprised, but I was
still disappointed. “When?”
    “She took off right before lunch.”
    “Okay, thanks.” Her kids, who had been
in foster care for years, would have to go up for adoption. I scribbled