"Emily," he began, his voice unexpectedly gentle, "I think there's been a serious misunderstanding between us."
I kept my expression neutral. "Is that what you call falsifying emails to discredit me?"
He sighed heavily, appearing genuinely troubled. "Those emails concerned me as well. They didn't sound like you."
This wasn't what I'd expected. I watched him carefully, looking for the lie. "Then why am I being suspended?"
"Protocol," he said simply. "When accusations of this nature arise, we have to follow procedure." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "But off the record, I've always respected your work, Emily. Your dedication to these children is admirable."
"Then why block my concerns about missing children?" I challenged.
Kline's expression shifted subtly. "What exactly do you think is happening to these children, Emily?"
There it was—the real reason for this private conversation. He wasn't offering support; he was fishing for information.
"I think they deserve better follow-up than they're getting," I replied carefully. "When foster children disappear, we should be doing everything possible to find them."
"Of course," he agreed smoothly. "But teenagers run away all the time. We have limited resources."
"Some of these children weren't runners," I said. "Marisol Martinez called me the night before she disappeared, terrified. By morning, she was gone, and all documentation was magically completed."
A flicker of something—concern? Alarm?—crossed his face. "You received a call from Marisol? Did you document this?"
"I reported it," I said. "The case was immediately transferred to Susan."
Kline studied me for a long moment. "What exactly do you have, Emily?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do." He leaned back in his chair. "You've been investigating something. Gathering information. I'm simply curious what conclusions you've drawn."
I maintained eye contact, refusing to be intimidated. "Only that certain foster families receive preferential treatment, their applications are fast-tracked, and when concerns arise about children in their care, those concerns are quickly dismissed."
"I see." Kline's expression remained neutral, but his fingers tapped rhythmically on his desk—a tell I'd noticed in previous meetings when he was agitated. "And have you shared these... concerns with anyone outside the department?"
The question confirmed what I already suspected. He wasn't worried about the children; he was worried about exposure.
"Should I have?" I countered, watching his reaction carefully.
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "That would be highly inappropriate, as you well know. Confidentiality is paramount in our work."
"So is the safety of our children," I replied evenly.
Kline's facade of friendly concern began to crack. "Let me be clear, Emily. If you've removed confidential files or shared sensitive information with unauthorized parties, that's grounds for immediate termination and possible legal action."
"I haven't removed anything," I said, splitting hairs. The files had been copies, not originals.
He studied me, clearly not believing me. "You're a dedicated social worker, Emily. I've always admired that about you. But sometimes dedication can become... obsession. Particularly after trauma."
"Are you suggesting I'm imagining things because of my abduction?" I kept my voice steady despite the fury building inside me.
"I'm suggesting that you've been through a terrible ordeal, and it might be affecting your judgment." His tone was patronizing, the concern in his eyes entirely manufactured. "Perhaps a longer leave of absence would be beneficial. With proper counseling, of course. Perhaps you’d allow me to take you home? It seems the least I can do."
And then I realized I was in an office with no witnesses, and I knew what I had to do.
"You know, I was just thinking my father always wanted a boy, but he got two daughters. If he’d had a son he would have named him Barnaby after my grandfather." I said.
Kline's brow furrowed in confusion. "Excuse me?"
