“Dorothy,” she said, voice rough with interrupted sleep, “what time is it?”
“Too early for anyone but the useful. Francis, I need emergency temporary custody of my granddaughter. Tonight if possible, tomorrow morning at the latest. I have a mandatory report being filed, a social worker on the way, and eight months of documentation in my phone notes.”
That woke her fully.
“What kind of documentation?”
“Dated observations. Behavioral changes. Physical marks. Witness patterns. I started in October.”
A beat.
“Send me everything. Right now.”
“On the way?”
“I’m already standing up.”
I emailed the notes from my phone while standing near the stairwell, where the signal was stronger and the hallway noise thinner. The file was longer than it looked when compressed into a single screen: entry after entry, each one dated, sparse, careful. I had not written feelings there. Only what I saw.
October 14. Brooke. Unannounced visit. Long sleeves in warm weather. Contact bruise left forearm, pattern inconsistent with reported bicycle fall. Story prepared in advance. Did not confront. Watching.