DARIUS
I peeked at Rhea leading the CPS worker through the Pack House, GB leading her past Rowan’s room. We’d thrown it together so quickly to make it a generic child’s room. Toys strewn across the floor, books piled on the shelves, drawings tacked to the walls. Nothing that looked like it was werewolf pack headquarters.
Janet Morrison was writing notes the whole time, each movement of her pen sharp and defined as it scanned over the clipboard.
“So how many people are in this house?”
"It varies," Rhea answered carefully. “This is a group living environment. Extended family and close friends. There is no excess of labour. Everyone helps to nurse and look after the children and work in the house.”
"How many adults do you think Rowan is available to?”
The question was a trap. Too many,
