Daniel said nothing. He carried Evan into the bathroom, ran cool water, pressed a soft towel to the burns. Evan flinched but didn’t cry.
That silence hurt Daniel more than the injuries.
“Tell me,” he said gently. “When did this start?”
“At first, she yelled,” Evan said, staring at the floor. “If I cried, she said you hated hearing it. Then… when I didn’t stop, she used the iron.”
“How often?”
“Two or three times a week. More if she was mad. She said I caused her problems.”
Daniel breathed slowly, grounding himself. The burns weren’t where a child could reach. The body told the truth.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, not accusing—just broken.
“I tried,” Evan whispered. “She stood next to me when you called. She said if I told you, you’d have an accident like Mom.”
Daniel closed his eyes. The car. The curve. The rain.
When he opened them, he was calm. Too calm.
He photographed every injury—carefully, methodically. Dates. Angles. Evidence. Evan followed instructions with the seriousness of someone who’d learned too many rules too young.
Claire appeared in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You can’t do that. I’m his mother now.”