Veronica Overton walked with prideful steps into the executive ladiesâ room on the fifth and top floor of the building that housed the agency, Child Placement and AssistanceâCPAAâthat she headed as executive director. In the three years that sheâd been its chief, sheâd developed the agency into a driving force on Baltimoreâs notoriously depressed and blighted west side. When she went home to her co-op town house in upper-middle-class Owings Mills, just outside Baltimore proper each night, she could pride herself in the knowledge that sheâd made it; sheâd accomplished what millions strove to do. Sheâd reached the top of her profession before her thirty-third year, and by bringing integrity to everything she did, sheâd won the respect and admiration of everyone who knew or knew about her. Veronica reached the entrance to the ladiesâ lounge and stopped short.
âWhat do you know about that?â she heard a woman ask. âHer Highness, Lady Veronica, is flat on her backside. The invincible Miss Overton. Not even the governor can get her out of this one.â
Veronica recognized Mary Annâs voice when she said, âWhyâre you so happy about it? I think itâs a reflection on all of us. Somebody slipped up somewhere.â
âYeah,â came the voice of Astrid Moore, the woman who had competed with Veronica for the position of executive director, âbut Her Highness is the one whoâll burn for it. That man means business.â
Veronica rubbed her arms to relieve the sensation of burrs and thorns attacking her skin. Forgetting that the women thought themselves alone, she startled Astrid with a hand on her shoulder.
âWhat are you talking about? Whatâs happened that I donât know about?â
Astridâs glistening white teeth sparkled against her smooth dark skin. âYou didnât know? Schyler Henderson just held a news conference. Seems Natasha Wynn is missing from the foster home we placed her in, and heâs suing CPAA for negligence.â
Veronica couldnât help bristling at the accusation, even as apprehension raced like blood through her body. âNegligence? Heâs out of his mind. Some children run away from their own parents.â
âYes,â Mary Ann said, stepping over to Veronicaâs side in an unspoken gesture of support. âBut Mr. Henderson said the home in which we placed Natasha is an unsuitable environment. You know what that means.â
âDo I ever!â Veronica wrinkled her nose against the sweet, sickening perfume that Astrid sprayed around her neck and ears. âThanks for your loyalty, Astrid. Be sure I wonât forget it. Not ever,â she added with pointed sarcasm.
She inspected her light brown skin, combed her black, artificially straight hair, refreshed the lipstick that matched her dusty-rose raw-silk dress and walked out of the room head high and shoulders straight. People said she walked regally, but she felt anything but regal right then. A blast from Schyler Henderson and his Advocates for the Child (AFTC) people could topple her, destroy all that sheâd done and sink her into professional disgrace.
She welcomed the sharp mid-March air that greeted her when she stepped out of the CPAA building. Winter had hung around longer than usual, and she tugged her street-length black shearling coat closer to her body. At the corner, she bought some roasted chestnuts from Franco, who told her proudly that heâd sent three children through college on what he made selling them. She believed him. Over twelve years, chestnuts at ten for a dollar fifty could have bought him a mansion.
The twenty-minute train ride home gave her just the time she needed to unwind after a hard day and to begin thinking of her other life. Her choral society, work with the shelters and her plan to help juveniles achieve more respect in their neighborhoods. She wanted to form them into groups of volunteers who would assist people in emergencies. As she entered the two-story brown brick structure, she couldnât help feeling a sense of pride. It was hers, and she didnât owe one penny on it.
After a light supper, she sipped ginger ale and watched the evening news. The Henderson man was everywhere, and his commanding presence and mesmerizing charisma seemed to have worked their magic on the reporters. Not one of them questioned his accusations; not one pointed out her contribution to the people in the area she served. Sickened by the mediaâs readiness to put her on trial, she flipped off the TV and set about planning her defense.
The next morning she sat in her office with her deputy, Enid Dupree, discussing the agencyâs options. Enid didnât believe they had the resources or the proof to combat AFTC. âVeronica, you know Henderson is formidable when he makes a case against you. Look at the way he managed that case against the boysâ club.â