By the time the news van pulled up to the curb, the future mayor of Brookside City was already lying to the mirror.
Valerie Tompkins stood in the foyer of her big craftsman house on a quiet American cul-de-sac, smoothing the skirt of her cream blazer and practicing her smile. Not the real smile—the one she used when the kitchen was a mess and one of the kids had spilled something. The campaign smile. The one that said I care about you and also I’m better than you in every possible way.
Behind her, three children huddled in a line: Kathy, tall and tense at seventeen; Cade, wiry and watchful at twelve; and little Aria, eight years old with a braid too tight and eyes too big.
“Come on,” Valerie hissed under her breath. “Hurry up. Get up there. Best behavior, the three of you.”
She knelt in front of Aria, squeezing the girl’s shoulders just a little too hard. “Do you remember the signal and what to say if he asks you a question?”
Aria nodded, throat bobbing.
“Good girl,” Valerie said, her voice syrupy and sharp all at once. “Angels. That’s what you are. My angels.”
The doorbell rang.
Valerie’s smile locked into place. “Positions,” she whispered, and opened the door.
“Valerie Tompkins?” The man on the porch held a mic in one hand, camera operator behind him. “Jake Barnes, DM News 9.”
“Of course,” Valerie said. “Come in. Please.”
The news logo on the mic made her heart beat faster. DM was one of the biggest local stations in the Midwest, their signal blasting across half of Illinois and into the Chicago suburbs. Perfect for poll numbers. Perfect for donors.
“Hey, gang,” Jake said, smiling at the kids. “Nice to meet you all.”
They smiled the way kids do when they’re scared and know they’re supposed to pretend they aren’t.
Once they were inside, the cameraman began unpacking equipment in the living room. The house was perfectly staged: framed photos of Valerie hugging children, a chalkboard with a math problem half-finished, inspirational quotes about family painted in white script over beige walls. Nothing out of place. Nothing that said three foster kids lived their lives in the basement unless they were needed as props.
Jake flipped open his notebook.
“Are you familiar with the name Clara Kask?” he asked.
Valerie’s smile didn’t flicker, but for a beat the air in the room changed.
“Sorry, who?” she said lightly. “I thought you were here to interview me about the election.”
“Actually,” Jake replied, “I’m here for a different story. About abuses in the foster care system.”
Kathy’s shoulders stiffened.
“I don’t know how I can help you with that,” Valerie said. “Other than to say fostering my children is why I decided to run for mayor in the first place.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” she said, placing a hand neatly over her heart. “Absolutely. I want the children in this community to have everything they need to live happy, healthy lives—just like my three angels. They’re my whole world. That’s why I homeschool them. I want them to have the best education possible.”
Her voice trembled, perfectly rehearsed.
“Let’s get back to Clara Kask,” Jake said.
There was a knock on the back door—a quick, panicked thumping.
Valerie’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me,” she said sweetly to Jake. “Will you all give me just a second?”
She crossed the kitchen in quick, controlled steps and yanked the mudroom door open.
A woman in a frayed coat stood there, clutching a crumpled piece of paper. “You said—”
“I said never come to this house again,” Valerie hissed, teeth barely moving. “Get out of here or I’ll call the police.”
The woman flinched and backed away, disappearing down the side of the house.
By the time Valerie turned back to the living room, her smile had returned. “Sorry about that,” she laughed. “Campaign season. People come to the wrong address all the time.”
Jake nodded, but there was a crease between his brows now.
“So,” Valerie said briskly. “The election.”
“Actually,” he said, pulling a folded clipping from his folder, “I wanted to talk about your experience with this woman.”
He slid the clipping across the coffee table. Grainy newsprint. A mugshot. A headline in a foreign language. The name: CLARA KASK.
Valerie’s breath hitched. For less than a second, her face went blank. Then she gave a small, bewildered laugh.
“I don’t know…” she said. “I’ve never seen her before in my life. Is she… some sort of… criminal?”
She reached for the paper, then flinched, pressing a hand to her stomach.
“Ugh,” she groaned dramatically. “I’m sorry, I—oh. Oh, sweetheart.”
Aria had put a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks had gone pale.
“My daughter,” Valerie said, swooping over to her. “She’s not feeling well. Poor thing. I’m afraid we’ll have to end this interview. My children are my first priority. I’m sure you understand.”
“I can wait,” Jake said. “This story is important. I think you have information that could—”
“As you see,” Valerie cut him off, rising with Aria in her arms, “she needs me. I won’t let politics come before my family.”
She carried Aria down the hall. The girl’s small fingers clutched the fabric of her blazer until they were out of sight.
The bedroom door closed. Valerie’s voice dropped.
“Get out of these clothes before you ruin them,” she snapped, setting Aria on the floor. “You have to wear them again tomorrow. We’re doing the breakfast show.”
She yanked the dress zipper down, not caring when it scratched Aria’s skin.
“Downstairs. Now,” she barked, swinging the basement door open. “And I don’t want to hear a peep out of any of you tonight when my campaign team gets here. Got it?”
She shoved Aria ahead of her and the girl stumbled down the wooden steps, tears starting to fall as the door slammed behind them.
In the dim basement, Kathy and Cade looked up from the thin mattresses pushed against the wall.
Aria burst into tears.
“Hey. Knock it off,” Cade muttered, voice cracking. “She’ll hear you.”
“Go easy on her,” Kathy said softly, pulling Aria close. “She’s only been here a couple weeks. You remember what it’s like.”
“It’s just…” Cade scrubbed at his eyes. “She’s so mean to us.”
“It gets easier,” Kathy lied. “The only way to survive Valerie’s reign of terror is to lay low. Do what she says, whenever she says it, no matter what. And don’t ever let her hear you cry. She really hates that.”
“Can’t we tell someone?” Aria sobbed. “Maybe they can help us.”
Kathy’s arms tightened. “No. That just makes things worse. Valerie is about to be elected mayor and we’re just a bunch of foster kids. That’s how the world sees us. The only way out is through. You just have to tough it out.”
“Easy for you to say,” Cade muttered. “You’re leaving in a couple days.”
Aria’s head jerked up. “You’re leaving?” she gasped. “Where are you going?”
Kathy looked away. “Back to Toronto,” she said. “I have grandparents there. Valerie said when I turn eighteen, I can go. I’ve been waiting for years.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” Aria whispered.
“Stop that racket or I’ll give you something real to cry about!” Valerie shouted from upstairs.
The basement fell silent, except for the sound of three kids trying not to make a sound.
Upstairs, in the living room, Valerie poured herself a glass of wine as her campaign manager scrolled through poll numbers on a tablet.
“The public loves you,” he said. “The ‘foster mom running for mayor’ angle was genius. You’re up nine points with suburban women.”
“As long as we avoid any missteps between now and Tuesday,” another aide said, “you’re our next mayor.”
“Speaking of missteps,” the first aide added quietly, “what about the girl downstairs? The one who turns eighteen soon. What happens if she talks to the press?”
Valerie waved a manicured hand. “You don’t have to worry about her. It’s all taken care of.”
Across town, under the harsh fluorescent lights of a TV newsroom in downtown Chicago, Jake Barnes filled a mug with burnt coffee.
“You went to Valerie Tompkins’ house?” his news director, Jean Thomas, demanded, heels clicking across the floor. “Today?”
“I was chasing a lead,” he said. “Her name came up in my foster care story.”
“I told you to drop that story months ago,” Jean said.
“I did,” he replied. “But then I got this.”
He pulled the foreign clipping out of his folder, along with the envelope it came in. The postmark was jagged and gray, the return address smeared. ESTONIA was stamped off to the side.
“It came in the mail,” he said. “No note. Just this article about a woman named Clara Kask—arrested for falsifying adoption records for cash—and a list of names. One of them is Valerie’s.”
Jean skimmed the article, eyes flicking over the Cyrillic letters.
“This proves nothing,” she said. “Valerie Tompkins is going to be the next mayor of this city and she’s giving us her final interview. I’m not letting your foster crusade ruin the station’s relationship with City Hall.”
“You know this isn’t just about me,” Jake said quietly. “Kids are getting lost in that system. Someone’s profiting from it.”
“I know you had a bad foster experience,” Jean snapped. “Not everyone did. Let it go.”
He didn’t.
Later that day, when Valerie arrived at the station for her big pre-election interview, Jake tried one more time.
“Mrs. Tompkins,” he called, intercepting her as she stepped into the lobby with all three kids in tow. They were dressed in fresh outfits, eyes glazed with rehearsed lines. “We never finished our conversation. I was wondering if we could talk about the vetting process when you fostered your children.”
Valerie’s campaign aide stepped between them. “No,” he said curtly. “She’s here to speak with Jean.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Jake insisted. “You could be helping at-risk kids.”
“I’m here to talk about my vision for the city,” Valerie said, voice cool. “Not to be harassed by a reporter looking to exploit my children for views.”
“Jake!” Jean’s voice cut through the lobby like a knife. “What did I tell you about harassing Mrs. Tompkins?”
“I’m just doing my job,” he said.
“Not anymore,” Jean replied. “You’re fired. Pack your desk. Fifteen minutes, or I call security.”
For a second, Jake just stood there. Behind Jean’s shoulder, Kathy’s eyes met his, wide and desperate, before Valerie jabbed her between the shoulder blades.
“Wipe those sad faces off,” Valerie hissed under her breath as Jean led her toward the studio. “We’re supposed to convince these people we’re a happy family, remember? You, Kathy, are the oldest. You keep these little monsters in line, or I will make sure you never see Canada again. Got it?”
Kathy swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
The next day, social media exploded.
Some viewer at the previous interview had filmed Aria vomiting mid-scene and Valerie dragging her away. The clip had been cut, captioned, and shared.
HOW CAN SHE RUN A CITY IF SHE CAN’T TAKE CARE OF A CHILD? one tweet said.
Is this what a “loving foster mom” looks like? asked another.
At the campaign office, Valerie paced in front of a wall of flat-screen TVs, all of them replaying the same sickly footage on a loop.
“This is a disaster!” one aide groaned, scrolling through comments. “We need to change the narrative.”
“We bring Aria here,” another said slowly. “We show how much you care. Make it look like she insisted on being at your side. People will melt.”
Valerie’s eyes lit. “Can we get her to play along?”
“Can you?” the aide countered.
Valerie laughed. “Of course.”
Back at the house, she rounded up the kids.
“This interview is key to my victory,” she said. “Do you all have your answers memorized?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cade muttered.
“Can we have breakfast now?” Aria whispered.
“Not until you earn it,” Valerie snapped. “My friend at Channel 4 went through a lot of trouble to get me the questions in advance. Try again. Why do you think your mother should be mayor?”
“Because…” Aria said uncertainly. “Because she’d be super fun?”
“Super fun?” Valerie repeated, eyes narrowing. “That’s not what we rehearsed. None of you are eating until you get this right. Let’s go. We’re late.”
She marched Kathy and Aria out the door, leaving Cade in the basement with a dry cereal bar and a knot in his stomach.
At the police station downtown, a patrol officer leaned on the front desk as Jake approached.
“Excuse me,” Jake said. “I was hoping to talk to someone about—”
“If this is about the election,” the officer cut him off, “I swear, if one more person comes in here with conspiracy theories about our soon-to-be mayor, I’m gonna start handing out tinfoil hats.”
“The guy before me,” Jake said slowly, “the one you mentioned—he was asking about Valerie?”
“Kept ranting she was from Russia or something,” the officer said. “Said her real name was different. Look, man, we’re busy. If you don’t have a real complaint—”
“Thanks,” Jake said, already backing toward the door.
On his way out, a bulletin board caught his eye. A missing person flyer was tacked there. A young woman with dark hair and wary eyes. Name: ABIGAIL WAGNER.
The same name that had stared up at him from that Estonian clipping.
The campaign office was packed. Cameras, reporters, staffers, donors—everyone buzzing under the harsh light, the skyline of an American city visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Valerie stepped up to the podium, Aria at her side in a pale blue dress.
“Mrs. Tompkins!” someone shouted. “How do you feel about the election?”
“We’re excited,” Valerie beamed. “But my first priority is always the children and families of this great city.”
She rested a hand on Aria’s shoulder. “My little angel insisted on coming today to say thank you.”
Aria swallowed. “I just want to help my mommy win,” she recited. “The city really needs her.”
Flashbulbs popped.
“Mrs. Tompkins,” a voice called out, “does the name Abigail Wagner mean anything to you?”
Valerie’s fingers dug into the podium.
“Abigail who?” she laughed. “No, I’m afraid—”
She broke off as Aria swayed.
The girl’s face had gone white. Her eyes rolled back.
With a small cry, she crumpled at her mother’s feet.
Gasps rippled through the room. Cameras swung down. Reporters shouted.
“My baby!” Valerie cried, dropping to her knees with a performance-worthy scream. “Oh my gosh! Are you all right?”
She gathered Aria dramatically in her arms. “She’s been dealing with health issues all week,” Valerie announced, eyes glistening. “That’s why she fainted yesterday, too. I told her to stay in bed, but she wanted to be here. She wanted to be strong.”
“No, Mommy,” Aria whispered weakly. “Your election.”
“Your well-being is more important than anything,” Valerie said. “Even an election.”
“But what about the other kids who need you?” Aria asked faintly, right on cue.
“She wants me to soldier on,” Valerie told the cameras, voice breaking. “My brave little angel. I’ll take her to the car, let her rest, and I’ll be right back to answer more questions. Please, give us a moment.”
She swept Aria out through the back, ignoring the flash of a familiar face near the parking lot.
“Aria,” Jake called softly as she passed. He’d slipped into the crowd as a “freelancer,” press badge borrowed from a friend. “Remember me? The reporter from the house? Are you okay?”
“I can’t talk to you,” she whispered. “We’ll get in trouble.”
He pressed a phone into her hand as the aide yanked the door open. “My number’s in there. If you ever need help, call me.”
“Hey!” a staffer barked. “Get away from the car.”
By the time Valerie slammed the SUV door, the phone was hidden under Aria’s skirt, shaking in her small hands.
“You did good,” Valerie told her coolly as they pulled away. “They ate it up.”
“So… Kathy can go home, right?” Aria asked.
Valerie’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “We’ll see,” she said.
That night, in a cramped apartment lit by the flicker of a muted TV, Jake’s old laptop chimed.
He’d been scrolling through public records, his father’s old detective badge lying beside the keyboard like a ghost.
A message popped up from an unfamiliar email address.
The subject line: I KNOW WHO SHE REALLY IS.
The woman who met him the next day at a dingy diner just off the interstate wore a cheap wig and too much eyeliner. Her hands shook as she stirred her coffee.
“Where have I seen that name?” Jake murmured, flipping through his notes. “Abigail Wagner…”
“She’s Valerie,” the woman said quietly. “Or she used to be. When I met her, that’s what she called herself.”
She took a breath and began to talk.
She told him about Moscow. About being fifteen and desperate and alone when Abigail “adopted” her and two other kids. About the lavish house and the locked doors, the strange men coming and going, the stacks of cash Abigail kept in the freezer.
“The cops were getting close,” the woman—Abigail’s former foster daughter—said. “She was involved with people she shouldn’t have been. So she decided to run for mayor. Once she had power, she could make the police back off.”
She described how Abigail had rebranded herself as a loving foster mother. How she’d staged photos, invented backstories, cried on cue. How the public had eaten it up, just like Brookside was doing now.
“A few days before my eighteenth birthday,” the woman continued, “she told me she was sending me back home. Bought me a train ticket. I thought I was going to see my uncle again.”
She laughed, bitter and small.
“The ticket was fake,” she said. “Instead of the train station, she drove me across the border to Estonia. To a woman named Clara Kask. Clara forged new papers. Changed my age to fourteen. Put me back into the foster system, for four more years. Different country, different name. All so I could never come back and testify against Abigail.”
It had taken her six years to escape, to track Abigail down, to discover that in America she’d reinvented herself again as Valerie Tompkins, foster mother and mayoral candidate.
“I sent the clipping to every reporter in town,” she said. “You’re the only one who showed up.”
Jake turned the coffee cup between his hands, the clatter of the diner fading.
“I have a friend on the force,” he said. “He says their captain told them not to touch her. She’s protected. But the FBI might feel differently.”
His phone vibrated.
Blocked number.
He answered. “Hello?”
A tiny voice whispered, “Did you mean it? When you said you could help us?”
“Aria?” he breathed.
“Valerie said she’s taking our sister home,” Aria said, voice shaking. “But I think she’s lying. I think she’s going to send her away.”
There was a yell in the background, then a scuffle.
“Aria!” another voice cried. Kathy’s.
“You are not going to ruin my chance to get out of here!” Kathy screamed as the call cut.
Jake stared at his phone.
“We’re out of time,” he said.
Kathy woke to the sound of Valerie’s heels on the basement stairs.
“Rise and shine, birthday girl,” Valerie sang. “Time to pack. Your flight leaves this afternoon.”
“My flight?” Kathy sat up too fast, heart slamming. “Today?”
“Early gift.” Valerie smiled. “I got you a ticket so you can finally go be with your grandparents.”
Tears pricked at Kathy’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Valerie said warmly. “You know I always keep my promises.”
Kathy grabbed the little tin box from under her mattress—old photos, a Canadian passport, a folded letter from her grandparents—and hugged Cade and Aria tightly.
“I’ll come back for you,” she whispered. “I swear. As soon as I can.”
Valerie waited by the door, tapping her foot.
“Did you remember your old passport?” she asked sweetly as they walked to the car. “Let me hold on to it for safekeeping. You know how you are. Always losing things. You wouldn’t want to get stuck between countries, would you?”
Kathy hesitated.
Then she handed it over.
“Good girl,” Valerie said, slipping it into her purse.
The election coverage blared on the car radio as they drove. “Early results are in,” a commentator announced. “Valerie Tompkins has jumped to an impressive lead. We’ll be going live to her campaign headquarters in downtown Brookside later this hour.”
“We should stop by the office first,” Valerie told the driver. “The press will eat it up. Candidate sees results with foster daughter at her side? They’ll eat that family-values nonsense with a spoon.”
“Aren’t we going to the airport?” Kathy asked.
“That’s what I meant,” Valerie said smoothly. “Airport. Train station. Same thing. Don’t worry about it.”
Kathy stared out the window. Her stomach twisted.
Something didn’t feel right.
In the FBI field office in downtown Chicago, a man in a plain suit and kind eyes hung up a phone.
“That was the girl,” he told Jake. “We traced the number to a burner, but the location pinged downtown. On the way to the campaign office.”
“Can we get her?” Jake asked.
“We already have units nearby,” the agent said. “And your cop friend? Bill? We rolled him into a task force six months ago. Your captain’s dirty. We’ve been waiting for probable cause. Thanks to your friend from Estonia and those kids, we’ve got it.”
He slid a folder across the table. Inside were photos of wire transfers, fake passports, a Russian conviction record for embezzlement under the name Alice/Abigail Wagner.
“Valerie’s been busy,” the agent said. “Let’s go say hello.”
The campaign office was roaring by the time Valerie arrived with Kathy. Staffers cheered. Camera flashes popped. The news anchors back at the station beamed as they cut live to the scene, bright graphics spinning across screens in living rooms across America.
“Thank you all for your hard work,” Valerie called, raising both arms. “If the numbers keep going up, we are on our way to victory!”
Behind the scenes, Kathy sat in a chair in the corner, clutching the strap of her bag. Outside the tinted windows, the skyline glowed.
The building’s lobby doors burst open.
“Move, move, move!” voices shouted.
FBI jackets flooded the hallway.
The campaign manager’s smile froze.
“Valerie Tompkins?” a man called. “You’re under arrest.”
“What?” Valerie turned, stunned. “What are you talking about?”
The agent held up a warrant. “Or should I say… Abigail Wagner?”
“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped. “You can’t just—”
“We can,” he said. “And we are.”
As they cuffed her, cameras rolled, hungry for every second. Back at DM News 9, a flustered anchor broke into the coverage, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’m Lou Banner, filling in for Jean Thomas, who has just been arrested in connection with a corruption and trafficking scandal unfolding as we speak…”
“Where’s Kathy?” Cade shouted, appearing at the edge of the crowd with Aria. Officers had brought them in the back, away from reporters.
“She took our sister!” Aria sobbed. “You have to find her!”
“I’m right here,” Kathy called hoarsely.
They turned to see her stepping off an elevator, flanked by two FBI agents. Her eyes were red but clear. The agents had intercepted the car on its “way to the airport,” just before Valerie’s driver could veer off toward an industrial road leading nowhere near O’Hare.
“She’s okay,” one agent told the kids. “We got to her just in time—all thanks to a phone call from a very brave little girl.”
Aria burst into tears again, this time out of sheer relief, throwing herself into Kathy’s arms.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you before,” Kathy whispered into Cade’s hair. “I wanted so badly to believe I was getting out. I didn’t want to see what was right in front of me.”
“What happens now?” Cade asked, voice small.
Kathy looked up at the agent who’d come from Toronto, the one who’d already contacted her grandparents.
“Well,” she said slowly, “after the FBI picked me up, we got to talking. I’m eighteen now. I’m old enough to foster with support. My grandparents in Toronto want you both as much as they wanted me. So I was thinking…”
She swallowed hard.
“Maybe you could come live with us,” she said. “All three of us. In Canada. For real this time.”
“Really?” Cade breathed. “You mean… we’d get to leave? With you?”
“If you want,” Kathy said. “If you trust me.”
Aria nodded so hard her braid came loose. “We want,” she said fiercely. “We trust you.”
Outside, sirens wailed as unmarked cars pulled away from the curb, carrying Valerie—Abigail—away in handcuffs. The city she’d tried to control watched through living room screens, phones buzzing, feeds flooding with memes and outrage and shocked disbelief.
In a basement across town, where three thin mattresses still lined a cold concrete wall, the echo of her heels was gone.
In a modest brick apartment near Lake Michigan, under a sky lit blue and red by reflected emergency lights, a reporter who’d been fired for caring too much sat at his kitchen table and smiled at the ringing phone.
“We did it, Dad,” Jake murmured, glancing at the old badge by his elbow as he answered. “Yeah. I’m listening.”
Somewhere between Chicago and Toronto, three kids would sleep on a plane for the first time in their lives, not as props or pawns, but as a family heading toward something that finally felt like a future.
They had been the backdrop in someone else’s story for so long.
Now, at last, the story was theirs.
