Page 8 of Steadfast

“Night, Sersh,” I called back, glancing up at her retreating back.

“Keep going,” Aisling ordered.

When I was done with the chapter, I tucked Aisling in like a burrito and shut off the light as I left their room. Saoirse was waiting for me in the hallway.

“Okay, tell me what’s going on,” she demanded quietly.

I jerked my head toward my room, and she followed me there.

“Child services showed up today while you guys were at school,” I said flatly, making her eyes flare with surprise.

“Why?”

“Because Ronan keeps going on the fucking roof,” I mumbled, pulling my hair out of the bun I’d been wearing all day. “And Aisling must’ve made a comment at school that her teacher overheard. And probably because they’ve finally realized that I’ve been the only one at parent-teacher conferences for the past two years, and no authority figures have seen our mother for longer than that.”

“Shit,” Saoirse muttered, dropping onto my bed.

“Understatement,” I replied, reaching for my pajamas. “The only reason I know about the Ronan shit and that Aisling had said something is because a girl who graduated my freshman year was with the social worker lady today.”

“What?”

“College summer internship or something,” I said, pulling off my shirt. “I wouldn’t let them in the house since Mom wasn’t here, so she called to give me a heads up on what was going on a couple hours after they left.”

“Nice of her.”

“No shit. We hung out with the same group when Dad died,” I replied, pulling on my sleep shirt. “I’m sure she remembers how it was. It was super fucking cool of her since she’d probably lose that internship if anyone ever found out she called.”

“So, what are we going to do?” Saoirse asked, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Mom said she’ll stay home and sober,” I assured her, dropping onto the mattress. “It’s not like we live in a pit. There’s nothing wrong with our house. So, if she talks to them, it should be fine.”

Saoirse was quiet for a moment before she spoke. “You should probably grocery shop tomorrow.” She looked at me apologetically. “I know you wanted to wait until the weekend—you get paid Friday, right? But if they look in the fridge—”

“Don’t worry,” I replied, cutting her off. I reached out and gave her ponytail a little tug. “I’ve got the money. I’ll shop in the morning.”

“Good,” she said with a nod. She got to her feet. “You should probably steal Mom’s keys, too. Just in case.”

“I’ve got it handled.”

“’Kay. Night.”

“Night.”

Once she was gone, I turned off my light and got into bed, staring at the ceiling. Cian and Saoirse were too smart for their own good. I hated it. The moment they’d walked in the house that afternoon, they’d known something was wrong. I’m sure it had been written all over my face. Saoirse had been patient enough to get the scoop after the younger two were in bed, but Cian had cornered me less than fifteen minutes after he got home.

If child services knew that my mom was leaving us for days at a time, would they try to take the kids? I was home and a legal adult, so technically she wasn’t doing anything wrong. But there were always horror stories of social workers taking kids for the smallest reasons. I couldn’t ignore the ball of anxiety in my gut. It wasn’t as if Mom was leaving us because she was working out of town. Hundreds of people who frequented the local bars knew that my mom was spending every weekend hammered out of her mind somewhere—half the time they witnessed it firsthand. Could they take the kids away for that?

It was my worst nightmare realized. There were five of us. No one would take all four kids. They’d be split up, put into different random foster homes, maybe have to switch schools. They’d have to live with strangers, possibly scary ones. Possibly creeps.

Closing my eyes, I pressed a hand against my sternum and focused on breathing.

“Hey, baby,” Richie called as my door squeaked open. “You okay?”

“You’re here,” I breathed, smiling at him through the darkness. I hadn’t been sure that he’d be able to get away. His parents may not be able to tell him what to do, but while he was still living under their roof, he had to play by their rules, and sleeping over at his eighteen-year-old girlfriend’s house was not something they were okay with.

“Had John call and invite me over,” he said, sliding my desk over in front of the door. It was the closest thing we had to a lock.

“You’re lucky your brother’s so nice to you,” I replied.

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