Save Me

8 Years Later

The blistering heat from back then seemed like a distant, fleeting memory. In contrast to the hot summer, California was going through quite the chilling winter. It was 7:30 on an especially cold Tuesday morning, and even with Michael glaring at the 32 degrees that sat steadily on the thermostat, the temperature never went up.

Michael sat at his desk, a bronze-colored metal monstrosity he considered to be an upgrade from the old wooden one he had years back. He leaned back in his chair, drank bitter black hot coffee, and sifted through his email on his white Dell desktop. The frost covered windows competed against the central heating. It was enough to keep Michael warm, but not enough to stop the occasional chill that licked the back of his neck.

The business season had slowed down for the investigative side practice, but unfortunately, Child Protection Services never had that issue. Michael grumbled to himself, grumpy and irritated that he never seemed to get a break from it all. Though the number of abuse cases had gone down in the last month, the number of "best interest cases" had rose due to a particularly nasty flu-like virus leaving parents hospitalized and kids without someone to care for them.

However, there was always one case he knew would always surface, no matter the time of year. He glanced at an open file on his desk and frowned.

The file, labeled "Truter, Isabelle" sat in its usual corner, always within reach. It was worn, discolored in spots, and pealing in the corners, showing how truly old the case within was. With a sigh, he opened the folder and stared down at the mug shots of James (Jim) and Bridgette Truter, sneering at their sunken, sore-covered faces. Never had he experienced such hatred for two people. He hated abusive parents, but in his personal and professional opinions, these two were the worst. They had always been in and out of jail for the same crimes: drug possession, domestic abuse, child abuse, petty theft; and the list goes on. Michael didn't understand how they always seemed to persuade the judges, how they were always able to get out of jail and get custody of their poor kid. He closed the file, disgusted.

Heartburn reared its ugly head, making Michael wince from the burning pressure that seemed to stab at his chest. He reached into his pocket and popped three Rolaids tablets, chasing the chalky taste with the coffee. After he finished clearing the regular junk emails for the morning, he let out a small groan, wishing he were in his warm bed.

The last eight hours were hell on him, investigating a known foster parent for sexual child abuse allegations. The possible pedophile cases were the ones that kept him up at night and haunted his dreams. As he looked up at the ceiling fan, his thoughts began to sink into a small dark corner of his mind. He began to wonder if some of the kids who had been taken to that particular foster parent as a result of his investigations somehow made their abuse his fault. He wondered if they would have been better off getting neglected or slapped around by their own parents than touched or worse by a legally appointed one.

Before he could sink deeper into more depressed thoughts, his ancient phone rang, making him jump slightly. He quietly cursed to himself as he picked up the phone.

"Yeah, this is Michael," he huffed before clearing his throat.

"'Morning, Mike. How are you doing?" came a familiar voice. Michael smiled. Peggy was the only dispatcher that sounded happy to talk to Mike. He frowned slightly, hearing the age in her voice. She would be retiring soon, and he'd be stuck with some stick in the mud like usual.

"Hey, Pegs. I just got off duty three hours ago," he said with a slightly annoyed tone.

"I know, hun, but..." She paused.

"But?"

"I figured you'd want to know; Isabelle Truter ran off again. The group home on Cecil Drive called. She was supposed to get dropped off last night, but the case worker lost her after we took custody of her, again."