Page 13 of Rogue Survivor
Starting the day with Connor—and Beans and Brews’ most excellent coffee—is fast becoming a habit I don’t want to give up. Not even Luke’s “Hey, babe. Any update on the grant proposal?” can dampen my mood.
“I’m submitting it tomorrow afternoon. Just need to polish the grammar up a bit and double-check the statistics I cited. I’ll copy you and Roger on the final version. And don’t call me ‘babe.’”
“Sorry.” He hunches his shoulders and heads for the coffee machine. I almost feel bad for chastising him, but his behavior affects more than just me. Every woman at the National Second Chances Network deserves respect, and Luke needs to learn that.
In my office, I pop in my earbuds and launch myInstrumentalplaylist. Three hours of verifying statistics is a boring—but necessary—evil, and I’ll take all the help I can get to stay focused.
My office phone rings a little after 2:00 p.m. “This is Isabel Lopez,” I say, my gaze never leaving the grant proposal on my laptop screen.
“Good afternoon, Isabel. It’s Tracie Solis from the Midtown Sober Living Home. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course.” The director of our preferred halfway house hasn’t called me in months. I hope Veronica didn’t pester the poor woman too much. “By the way, thank you for speaking with my daughter and her friend for their article in the Austin Academy’s student newspaper.”
“It was a pleasure. Veronica and Mitzi are both polite, intelligent, well-spoken young women. But that’s not why I called. I’m afraid we won’t be able to renew our contract with the National Second Chances Network for the upcoming fiscal year.”
“Wh-why not?” Sitting up a little straighter, I grab a notepad from the corner of my desk and pull my pen cap off with my teeth. This is the last bit of news I expected today.
“The relapse rate for y’alls referrals has gone up fifty percent in the past six months. Every time a recovering addict backslides, there’s a high chance they’ll take another resident with them. We provide a safe, supportive place for our clients, and the risk is simply too great.”
I’m baffled and scroll through the grant proposal until I find the relapse rate statistics I included. “I have the numbers right here, Tracie. Our five-year recidivism rate is less than thirty-five percent. That’s the best in the country.”
Tracie sighs, and her voice carries all the tension I feel. “Prior to last August, I would have agreed with you. But since then? Out of the thirty-two individuals you’ve sent to Midtown, twenty-four of them have left our program before their six-month graduation ceremony. At least fifteen have been arrested for possession—that I know of—and another three overdosed. The others…? I don’t know what ultimately happened, but our counselors haven’t been able to reach them.”
This is bad. So very bad. If she’s right—and word of this gets around before we submit the proposal—we’re up a creek. “Can you give me just a moment? I’d like to check our records.” I hate accessing the client database, but if there were ever a time to do it… I put Tracie on hold and bring up our last ten referrals to Midtown. Every single one of them has checked in like clockwork with our counselors. So why does Tracie think they’ve relapsed? “Thanks for your patience. I need to look into this further and talk to Helen, our Client Coordinator. Can I call you tomorrow?” Wiping my palms on my skirt, I hold my breath.
“I’m in Dallas at a conference tomorrow. I’ll be back on Wednesday. I can’t promise anything you find is gonna change my mind, Isabel. But I look forward to hearing from you.”
The call drops, and I close my eyes, resting my head against the back of my chair.
Shit.
Chapter Five
Isabel
The glowof downtown after dark mocks me from my office window. For the past twenty-four hours plus, I’ve been in panic mode. Helen has calls out to every one of the recovering addicts we’ve sent to Midtown in the past six months, but so far, no one’s responded to her. At least the grant proposal is done and submitted, but if our numbers don’t hold up going forward, our reputation will be worth less than mud, and we won’t be able to keep providing the help this community so desperately needs.
My phone beeps, and I glance at the screen.
See you soon. Can’t lie. I’m a little nervous. Been a long time since I took a beautiful woman to dinner.
My cheeks heat, and the low-level fluttering that’s been my constant companion all day intensifies. Until I glance at the clock at the top of the screen. “Shit.” I should have left for the restaurant ten minutes ago, but Luke put me behind by dumping a stack of financial reports on my desk this afternoon. Probably some childish retaliation for turning him down when he asked me to lunch today. If I don’t get out of here, I’ll be so hopelessly late, Connor will never forgive me. Or worse…he’ll leave.
Veronica convinced me to wear the only “little black dress” in my closet and showed me a trick with a long red cardigan that turned it into a cute jacket. When I left the house, I didn’t feel…old.But now? All my insecurities come rushing back faster than small-town gossip.
What am I doing? Going out on a dinner date with a guy who’s easily hot enough to set me on fire? This isn’t me. I’m Isabel the mom. Isabel the non-profit Assistant Director. Isabel the boring, middle-aged woman with stretch marks, sagging boobs, and crow’s feet. Thank God I have a built-in curfew at nine to pick up Veronica. I’m terrified we’ll sit down to dinner and suddenly have nothing to talk about.
My phone rings in my hand, and I stifle my yelp. Leah? Why would Mitzi’s mom be calling me? The girls were supposed to be at her ex’s place this evening.
“Hi, Leah. What’s up? I thought the girls were at Brian’s tonight.”
“They never showed up,” she says, her voice strained.
My world screeches to a halt. “They were supposed to go straight there from school…”
“Mitzi left her biology textbook at home, so I called Brian an hour ago. The jerkforgothe had her for the rest of the week. Neither of them are answering their phones, and Mitzi’s is turned off. I can’t even track her with the GPS app.”
“Veronica knows better than toevershut hers off. Give me a minute.” Pulling up the website that lets me see her location, I force myself to take a deep breath and click on theFind Phonelink. A circle spins in the center of the page for five seconds. Ten. Twenty.
