"We should finish up," I murmured against her lips. "Before we freeze."
She nodded, and we quickly rinsed off. I stepped out first, wrapping a large towel around my waist before holding one open for her. She stepped into it, and I enveloped her in the soft fabric, using the corners to gently dry her shoulders and back.
"I could get used to this," she admitted softly, watching me through her lashes.
"That's the plan," I replied with a smile, leading her back to the bedroom. I found her a fresh t-shirt—one of mine that would hang like a dress on her smaller frame—and a pair of boxers with a drawstring waist she could tighten.
I insisted on dressing her, then pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed to braid her hair.
"Hungry?" I asked once I was done.
She nodded. "Starving, actually."
"Good. I'll make us something while you talk me through your files, and we get them copied for Eric." I bent and brushed my lips over hers. "Not going behind your back this time. Working together."
Emily considered this, then nodded. "Together."
Downstairs, I started preparing a simple pasta dish while Emily spread her files across the kitchen island. She had organized everything meticulously—color-coded tabs, cross-referenced notes, timelines for each child.
"Start with the Wilsons," I suggested, adding garlic to the sizzling olive oil. "You mentioned Marisol was placed with them."
Emily nodded, pulling out a thick folder. "The Wilsons became foster parents a year ago. They specifically requested older children, claiming they wanted to help teenagers transition to adulthood. Susan—now my supervisor—fast-tracked their application."
She spread out several photos—a middle-aged couple standing in front of a well-maintained suburban home. "Robert Wilson is a financial advisor. His wife, Karen, doesn't work outside the home. They have no biological children."
"How many foster children have they had?" I asked, adding diced tomatoes to the pan.
"Seven in three years. All girls between thirteen and sixteen." Emily's voice took on that clinical tone again—her professional shield against the horror of what she had seen. "And of the seven, five allegedly ran away or were moved to family reunification in other states, families that seem uncontactable. The paperwork is flawless—too flawless."
I stirred the sauce, letting her continue.
"Marisol was their most recent placement. Fifteen, originally from Honduras, parents deceased. She'd been in the system for three years, bounced between four homes before the Wilsons. By all accounts, she was adjusting well—attending school regularly, participating in after-school activities."
"Until she wasn't," I guessed.
Emily nodded grimly. "Three months in, she called me late one night. Left a voicemail saying Mr. Wilson had men over who were taking pictures of her. She sounded terrified." Emily's voice caught. "By the time I got the message the next morning and tried to contact her, she was gone. Karen Wilson said she'd run away during the night."
"And your supervisor took over the case," I remembered.
"Immediately. Said it was protocol." Emily pulled out another document. "This is the official report. Notice anything strange?"
I leaned over to look, careful not to drip sauce on the papers. "It's dated the day after Marisol disappeared."
"Exactly. How did Susan have time to interview the Wilsons that morning, file a police report, and complete all this paperwork in less than six hours? Unless..."
"Unless it was prepared in advance," I finished, the implications sickening me.
Emily nodded, her face grim. "The same pattern repeats with the other families. Children placed, three to four months of normal adjustment, then a sudden incident followed by disappearance and perfect paperwork."
I turned down the heat under the sauce and moved to stand behind her, my hands on her shoulders. "You've built a solid case, Emily. This is exactly what we need."
"But it's not enough to find the children," she said, frustration evident in her voice. "And that's what matters most."
"It's a start," I assured her, squeezing her shoulders gently. "Eric can trace financial transactions, communications. We'll find connections we wouldn't have had without your work."
She leaned back against me, some of the tension leaving her body. "I just feel so responsible. If I'd noticed sooner..."
"Don't," I said firmly, turning her to face me. "You did notice. You're the only one who did. And now we're going to do something about it." I enjoyed taking her weight. "Let me show you something."
