Chapter 235

The door opened on a tall man, salt-and-pepper hair gone fully white at the temples, giving him a distinguished appearance. He was wearing a full business suit and carrying a case. Simon had been spending the last few days preparing, too, obviously. “Yes?”

“Good morning,” the man said gravely. He did not offer a hand. “My name is Dennis Culpepper, and I represent Child Protective Services.”

Andy had been so certain the man was Simon’s lawyer that it took him a few extra beats for that to register. “I’m sorry?” he managed.

“So am I,” Culpepper said, without any trace of humor. “When my services are required, it means a child’s wellbeing is in danger.”

“I don’t understand,” Andy said, trying to maintain outward calm despite the way his blood was suddenly rushing in his ears.

“CPS has been made aware that your—niece, is it?—may be less than adequately provided for. I am here to perform an inspection of the premises.” He said it in a calm, even tone, but the way his lip curled when his eyes lingered on the hickey on Andy’s collarbone said plenty. “Is Miss Stahl available?”

Andy resisted the urge to try to cover the bruises. Culpepper had already seen them; trying to hide them now would look guilty. “No. She’s at a sleepover with a friend. Is Simon Johannson really trying to play this card?”

“I can’t tell you who’s registered the complaint,” Culpepper said, looking entirely too pleased about it. “Are you going to let me in?”

Scooter came out of the back room, pulling a tee over his head, then finger combed his hair into place. He stopped dead just inside the room. “Culpepper,” he said. “I know you.”

Culpepper looked up, his eyebrows going up. “Mr. Stahl. How nice to see you again.” Dry enough for a desert, that.

“It’s Stahl-Howard now.” Scooter straightened up, rolling his shoulders. His spine crackled unpleasantly. “And this is my husband, Mr. Howard-Stahl. Please, do come in. May we see your orders and credentials before proceeding?” He glanced over at the clock.

“Of course,” Culpepper said, though he was scowling. He set his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it, withdrawing a sheaf of papers that he offered to Scooter.

Scooter hummed, flipping through the pages slowly. “How…very thorough of you, Mr. Culpepper. Neglect, possible abuse, unsuitable living arrangements. Care to elaborate on that last one?”

Culpepper sniffed. “You must admit, Mr. Stahl, this is hardly anything like a normal home.”

Scooter looked around the house, exaggerated. He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps my definitions are off, Mr. Culpepper.” He gave Culpepper a shark’s grin. “I see: married couple, been together a few years. Successful business. Well-kept home. Pets.”

Culpepper grunted. “I note that your well-kept home is situated directly above a business that serves alcohol and is open until almost midnight, which might make it difficult for a child to sleep. And I also note that you both work for said business—who is home with Miss Stahl in the evenings?”

“It varies,” Scooter said. “As you’ve noted in the past, the nature of the business is very flexible. Billie spends a lot of her time below stairs, in my office, or in the kitchen with Jason Anderson. In the evenings, we alternate on check-ins and who’s sitting with her, depending on who’s needed below.” He took a seat at the dining room table, still skimming through the paperwork, his shoulders held high and stiff. “Is this our formal interview or just the notification?”

Culpepper smiled thinly. “You are aware of our policies, Mr. Stahl. If we notified families of our intent to inspect ahead of time, we certainly would not be seeing the child’s real environment. I’ll start with the child’s room, please.”

Andy glanced at Scooter, who gave him a tired nod. Andy suppressed a sigh and gestured. “This way, Mr. Culpepper.” He opened the door to Billie’s room and let Culpepper sweep ahead of him, suddenly grateful that they’d made picking up her room a condition of the sleepover.

The smell of the guinea pigs, cedar and waste, was a little thicker in Billlie’s room, as tended to happen with rodents, but the look on Culpepper’s face was not reassuring. Muffin stretched, coming out from the back bedroom; as always, eager for a peek in Billie’s room where she wasn’t allowed unsupervised. Scooter grabbed the kitten and draped her over his shoulder where she started kneading at his chest with her tiny claws. Scooter made a low, not-quite-chuckling noise. “She has, I think you’ll find, a rather adequate wardrobe. Seasonal items, as well as general purpose clothing.”

Culpepper hummed dubiously as he opened drawers and pulled out random items to look at. “A bit extravagant for a seven-year-old,” he observed.