PART 2
The drive to the Department of Child Services felt like moving underwater. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. Brenda hadn’t said another word on the phone, but the panic in her tone had sent a cold wave of dread straight through to my bones.
When I arrived, the receptionist pointed me silently down the fluorescent-lit hallway.
Brenda was waiting in her doorway. The moment I stepped inside, she shut the heavy wooden door behind us. I heard the lock click. Then, she walked over to the narrow window overlooking the parking lot and pulled the blinds tightly shut.
She looked entirely different from the composed professional I had known for a year. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale and drawn.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Is it Leo?”
Brenda took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned against her desk. “He was in the ER last night.”
The room seemed to spin. I grabbed the back of a chair to steady myself. “What happened? Where is he?”
“Broken collarbone,” Brenda said flatly, though her eyes were filled with fury. “And severe bruising on his ribs. She told the ER triage nurse that he fell off the front porch.”
“A porch?” I gasped. “Brenda, her apartment complex doesn’t have porches. It’s a second-floor unit with an indoor stairwell.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “The ER doctor knew the injuries didn’t match the story, so he flagged the system. I got the alert at five this morning.”
Before I could demand that we go to the hospital, Brenda opened her desk drawer and pulled out a thick, unmarked manila folder. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding it across the desk toward me.
“I am breaking every rule I have by showing you this,” Brenda said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “If they find out, I lose my job, my pension, everything. But I can’t let this happen again.”
I opened the folder. Inside were three separate incident reports. They were detailed, horrifying, and all flagged with bright red “CLOSED” stamps. I read the dates. They spanned the last six years.
“These are prior investigations,” I said, looking up in confusion. “But… these dates are before Leo was even born.”
“Read the ages of the victims,” she instructed.
I scanned the paperwork. All three reports involved children under five. One was a nephew.
Two were children of a former boyfriend. In every single case, there was documented evidence of abuse. In every single case, a caseworker had recommended removal or criminal charges. And in every single case, the file had been abruptly closed and sealed by a judge.
“How?” I asked, the paper trembling in my hands. “How does a woman with this history get custody of Leo handed back to her in fifteen minutes? How does a judge look at this and send a four-year-old into that house?”
