The social worker must have noticed Ian crying, too, because she knelt in front of his chair and told some big lie about taking them to a nice house and buying them all new shoes. Poor kid believed every word. Drew wished it was true, but it wasn’t.
Mr. James, who smelled like spearmint gum, loosened his hold the slightest bit and slid to his knees in front of Drew’s chair. Drew hoped this was his chance. Mr. James, who coached baseball and was stronger than some of the high school football players, wasn’t a dummy. He kept one big hand on Drew’s arm and another on his knee.
“Boys,” he said, looking around at all three of them. “Sometimes life throws us a curveball. Things happen that we don’t expect. But I want you to know one thing.” He stared over at the social worker. She was still on her knees in front of Ian. “No matter where you go from here or what happens, you have a friend who will never leave you. His name is Jesus. If you let Him, He’ll take care of you.”
Something inside Drew quieted. He knew who Jesus was though he’d never been to church. He didn’t know how he knew but he did. And even if it was a lie, he liked thinking that there was somebody somewhere that wouldn’t leave him and his brothers alone.
“Collin?” Mr. James said and twisted around, holding his hand out. When Collin ignored him, the counselor laid the hand on Collin’s worn-out shoe and bowed his head. He started whispering something and Drew knew Mr. James was praying. Praying for Collin and Ian and him.
Drew got a funny lump in his chest, like he might cry. He squeezed his eyes shut. Mr. James loosened his hold, but Drew didn’t try to run. He wasn’t mad at Mr. James, not really. He wanted Mr. James to take him home with him and teach him how to play baseball.
When the prayer was over, Drew opened his eyes, curious. The room was real quiet. Even Ian had stopped whimpering.
Mr. James reached into his pocket and pulled out some little key chains and handed them each one. Drew gazed at his, curious about the silver metal fish with words on the back.
He was in second grade. He could read. But not that good.
“I want you to have one of these,” the counselor said. He stared at the social worker again in a way Drew didn’t understand, like he was daring her to say anything. She looked down and fiddled with the floppy sole of Ian’s shoe. “It’s a reminder of what I said, that God will watch over you no matter where you go or what you do.”
“Where we going this time?” Collin asked, voice hard and mad.
“I have placements for Drew and Ian.”
“Together?”
Drew’s head jerked up. They always stayed together. They had to stay together.
“Not this time. All the placements are separate.”
Blood pounded in Drew’s head. He clenched the key chain until the metal bit into his skin.
“Ian gets scared,” Collin said, his voice shaky. “He stays with me.”
Collin was right. Ian needed his big brothers. They needed each other. All for one, one for all. Like the Three Musketeers movie they saw at a friend’s house.
Drew’s blood started to heat up again. Separate placements. Places for bad boys. For troublemakers.
He looked frantically at Collin. Why didn’t Collin say something? Why didn’t he tell her that they couldn’t be separated? They’d die if they weren’t together.
He opened his mouth to say so, but only a growl came out.
“I’m sorry, boys. This will work out for the best. You’ll see.” The social worker tried to sound jolly, but Drew was no fool.
They would be separated. Him and Collin and Ian. He would never see his brothers again.
He said a cussword and bolted toward the door. Too late, too late. Mr. James picked him up and carried him out the door, kicking and screaming.
Chapter One
Twenty-three years later, Iraq
Life as he knew it was about to end.
Drew Michaels had made a mistake and now he had to pay the price. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how badly he wanted to hang on, he had to let go of the most important thing in his life—his marriage.
He just hoped he could survive the aftermath.
“Mr. Michaels, take a shot of that.”
Camera ever ready, Drew followed the direction of his driver’s pointed finger but didn’t press the shutter. He was on assignment somewhere outside Baghdad, and if he’d seen one herd of goats he’d seen them all. He wasn’t in much of a mood today to take useless photos. Or any kind of photos, come to think of it. The memory of yesterday’s telephone conversation with Larissa was too fresh and painful.
He’d finally told her the truth.
Well, not the real truth, but the truth she needed to hear. Their marriage had been a mistake, and he wanted a divorce.
Remembering her reaction made him want to shoot something all right, but not with his camera.
Larissa had cried. He hated himself for that, just as he hated himself for ever thinking he could make a woman like her happy. Any woman, for that matter. Drew Michaels didn’t have what it took to settle down and be a husband and father. He wanted to. He just couldn’t.
He and Amil, the amiable Iraqi driver, were bumping through another nameless village with the usual string of squat, sand-colored buildings and local citizens going about the normal business of living. Women in long, flowing abayahs, children herding goats with a stick, soldiers poised with automatic rifles.
Drew had spent so much time in the Middle East that the military presence had actually started to look normal to him.
Next week he was off to Indonesia. A volcano was on the howl, and disasters were his specialty. Earthquakes, volcanoes, famine, war. You name it, he shot it. Not the usual stuff though. That was boring. He either went for that elusive moment of ambient light or for the people, the human side, the kids. He was good and he knew it. In fact, photography was the only thing he’d ever been good at. If he’d stuck to his work, he wouldn’t be in this mess now.
Sand swirled up in front of the jeep and Drew shaded his face. Sunglasses weren’t adequate protection against Middle Eastern sand and a photographer couldn’t be too careful of his eyes.
Photographic art buffs said he had great artistic vision, an eye for the perfect detail. Able to capture an image that spoke to the consciousness.
He didn’t know about all that, but he didn’t argue. If they wanted to pay exorbitant prices for his photos, he’d take their money.
The memory of one particular photo exhibition shimmied to the surface. Tulsa. Three years ago.
He’d felt as phony as his last name. All those society types swarming around a display of his work, murmuring things like, “inspired,” or “provocative.”
He should have known then to cut and run. But he hadn’t.
And then Larissa had walked toward him, an artsy diamond choker around her elegant neck, sparkling diamonds dangling from her ears. His eye for detail had served him well at that moment, though he’d wished for a camera to capture her. In a long white fitted gown of some satiny material, chestnut hair pulled up at the sides, one gleaming lock over a bare shoulder, she’d captivated him.
He’d never expected to love anybody, but he’d fallen in love with Larissa on the spot. It was stupid and foolish. Now he had to right the wrong he’d done to her.
“Another week and I’m out of here, Amil,” he said to the driver.
“Going home to your woman,