When the police arrived, Daniel stepped between them and Marisol.
“There is no kidnapping,” he said firmly. “I made a mistake.”
He withdrew the report. Protected her publicly for the first time.
Then, more softly, “Let’s go home.”
But nothing would be the same.
Back at the mansion, confrontation exploded. Mrs. Whitmore descended the staircase, demanding the babies. She accused Marisol again, called her dramatic and unstable.
Daniel stood in front of his mother.
“If you touch my children again,” he said in a low voice, “I won’t forgive it.”
She tried to justify herself. “They needed cleansing. They carry filth.”
The confession hung in the air.
He ordered security to escort her out. Locks were changed. Accounts frozen. Ten minutes to leave.
“For once,” he said, “I’m being a father instead of just your son.”
Upstairs, Daniel and Marisol carefully bathed the babies, washing away bleach and dirt. Under the bathroom lights, the burns looked worse. Daniel slid down the marble wall, covering his face.
“I failed them,” he whispered. “I wasn’t here.”
“You’re here now,” Marisol replied.