Chapter 3 - The Cold Light of 5:00 AM
The DCF investigator arrived at 4:45 a.m. Her name was Detective Miller, a tired-looking woman with grease stains on her blazer from a late-night drive-thru and eyes that had seen too many children with stories that didn't match their bruises.
Arthur had already retreated to the parking garage after a furious, whispered argument with Sarah in the hallway that ended with him slamming his briefcase against the vending machines. He was a lawyer; he knew that staying in the building once a formal forensic hold was placed meant he would have to answer questions on camera without his own counsel present. He left Sarah behind like a piece of baggage he no longer had the clearance to carry.
I stood by the glass partitions of the nurse's station, watching Detective Miller interview Sarah in a small, private consultation room off the main lobby. Through the glass, I could see Sarah’s head shaking, her hands flying to her face, her body collapsing into the small, industrial couch. She was finally breaking, but it was the messy, ugly breaking of a person who realized the luxury cage she had built for herself had just become a prison.
Thomas Vance walked out of Bay Four, wiping his hands with a paper towel. "The cast is on, Nora. Fiberglass. Light blue—she picked the color. The block is holding, so she’s not in pain right now, but she’s exhausted."
"Thank you, Thomas," I said, looking down at my own watch. 5:12 a.m. The sky outside the high windows was turning a pale, smoky grey, the first hint of dawn over the city. "Can I take her home?"
"Legally, since you’re her grandmother and her biological mother is currently being detained for questioning regarding failure to protect, the emergency custody order can be transferred to you provisionally," Thomas said, tapping his tablet. "I’ve already signed the medical clearance. But Nora... Arthur isn't going to let this go. I know his firm. They handle the hospital’s malpractice insurance line. He’s already called our chief of staff twice from his car. They’re going to try to paint you as an unstable, vengeful relative who is using a domestic accident to settle an old family grudge."
"Let them paint," I said, my voice dry. "I’ve been called worse things by better men than Arthur Finch. Is she ready?"
When I walked back into Bay Four, Maya was sitting up, her right arm cradled against her chest in a crisp white sling that contrasted sharply with the bright blue of her fresh cast. She looked smaller in the daylight, her face pale, with dark purple circles under her eyes that made her look more like twelve than sixteen.
"Grandma?" she asked, her voice cracking. "Where’s Mom?"
"She’s talking to the officers, Maya," I said, walking over and helping her slip her left arm into her jacket sleeve, careful not to disturb the fresh plaster. "She’s going to stay here for a little while to finish the paperwork. You’re coming home with me."
Maya didn't ask about Arthur. She didn't ask about her clothes or her schoolbooks or her room at the big house in the gated community of Oak Ridge. She just stood up, her balance slightly off from the medication, and leaned her weight against my shoulder as we walked toward the exit.
The air outside was cold, smelling of early morning ozone and wet asphalt. As I unlocked the passenger door of my old Buick, I looked up at the parking deck. A silver Mercedes SUV was idling near the exit ramp on the third level, its headlights cutting through the grey mist like two predatory eyes.
Arthur was still there. Watching.
May you like
I didn't blink. I waited until Maya was safely inside, clicked her seatbelt shut, and then turned to face the third level of the garage. I raised my hand, not in a wave, but in a slow, deliberate gesture, pointing directly at the dashboard camera of my own car, which had been recording the entire entrance perimeter since I pulled in.
The silver SUV put its reverse lights on, backed out of the space with a sharp screech of rubber, and disappeared into the concrete maze.
