Perversion (Perversion Trilogy #1)(4)

“Maybe, he ran away,” my caseworker said, casually. “We could call for him, but it’s not like he can answer. Are you sure you want to do this? It’s the ones who are slow, you know, mentally challenged, that seem to cause the most behavioral problems, and he’s already exhibited most of those problems. Big and dumb is a lot to take on without the added stress of the violence he’s shown to be capable of.”

I chuckled. Like that bitch had any idea what I was truly capable of.

I looked down to Emma Jean who’d been listening intently to the conversation. Her face reddened. Her fists balled at her sides.

Marci began to speak, but Emma Jean jumped from the side of the house.

“How dare you!” she screamed, pointing an accusing finger at my caseworker. “Tristan isn’t dumb. You’re the dumb one because you don’t know shit.”

Shocked that a kid who didn’t know me beyond the past ten minutes was now defending me like she’s known me my entire life, I was both confused and amused.

“Who are you?” the caseworker asked in a practiced, yet fake as fuck soft tone. She bent down and placed her hands on her knees, lowering herself to Emma Jean. “And, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. He doesn’t talk, sweetie. I’ve been his caseworker for years. He’s never said a word.” She stood back up.

“Shows what you know.” Emma Jean placed her hands on her bony hips. “Lady, how the hell do you think I know his name is Tristan?” She waited a beat. “Oh yeah, because he TOLD me.”

“He…he talked?” she asked, eyes darting to me over Emma Jean’s shoulders.

“Duh.” Emma Jean rolled her eyes. “Did you ever stop to think that he doesn’t speak because he doesn’t want to talk to you? Or maybe while everyone else is yappin’ away with shit words and empty promises that maybe he’s keeping to himself because he doesn’t want to listen to your dirty whore mouth say one more meaningless thing?” She spoke as if she was not only defending me but somehow defending herself. “Tristan isn’t the stupid one.” She huffed. “That would be YOU!”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Marci stood behind the caseworker with her shoulders shaking in silent laughter, her hand covering her mouth.

Emma Jean bent over to tie her dirty shoe laces then leaped back up with her middle finger in the air while my caseworker stood frozen in stunned silence. Emma Jean lowered her hand, glaring hatred at my caseworker with her bulging jewel toned eyes. Her stare was so powerful it beamed through the air like lasers. Her innocent tears from moments before now looked a lot more like experienced pain.

“In the words of the great Bob Dylan,” Emma Jean spat out at my caseworker, “‘Don’t criticize what you can’t understand.’”

Emma Jean looked to me while my caseworker picked her jaw up from the ground. She smiled sweetly at me. A completely different girl than the one crying over a cat. “See ya, Tristan!” Heading down the driveway, she called over her shoulder, “Take good care of him, lady!”

“I will, sweetheart,” Marci said with a laugh.

Emma Jean didn’t look both ways as she’d made a big show of doing earlier. She darted across the street and disappeared between houses without a glance.

The kitten in my arms hissed and clawed at the sleeve of my hoodie, reminding me of his presence. I adjusted him, but it only gave him more room to dig his claws into me deeper, cutting tiny slits into the thick cotton fabric and scratching my skin.

Little shit.

My caseworker grumbled to herself as she climbed into her Buick. “Good luck,” she muttered, before pulling out into the street and driving off. My eyes didn’t follow the car; I was still staring across the street where Emma Jean has disappeared.

What the fuck just happened?

“That was Miss Erikson getting her ass handed to her by a little girl,” Marci voice answered, as if I’d spoken the question out loud. I turned my head and found Marci standing beside me, her hand on a sparkly black belt that hung from her hip. She glanced at Mr. Fuzzy. “And you being conned by one.” She smiled, tight-lipped like she was trying not to laugh although I wasn’t sure what the hell she found so funny. “I assume she cried and begged you to take this little furball, here.”

Fuzzy hissed again, pushing against my forearm with his hind legs.

“Fuck,” I swore, surprising myself yet again. Normally, even my mental reactions were kept silent.

Marci didn’t correct my language, and her smile grew larger. “That little girl?” She raised her chin and joined me in looking across the road. “Just used one of the oldest cons in the book. Finding stray animals’ homes…” She pressed her closed fist against her lips, then shrugged. “By whatever means necessary.”

I glanced back down at the mangy thing in my arms, rolling my eyes at my own stupidity. Completely dumbfounded. The kid was a lot smarter than she’d let on.

I looked at Marci and then back across the road.

“Reminds me a lot of myself at that age,” she mused. “Those are the ones you gotta watch out for. A con artist with a heart.”

Emma Jean Parish. I talked to her. She touched me. She defended me. She kissed me.

SHE CONNED ME.

I was confused. Pissed off.

And kind of impressed.