“And the little one.”
“My sister. Her name is Lily.”
Finley felt something twist painfully in his chest. “Evan,” he said gently. “Can you tell me what happened.”
Evan hesitated. Then, with mechanical resolve, he lifted his shirt.
The detective turned his head, jaw tightening so hard it ached. Bruises layered over scars, burns in shapes that suggested intent rather than accident. This was not recent harm. This was a history.
Dr. Ortiz met Finley’s gaze and gave a small, grim shake of her head. This child had not been hurt once or twice. He had been shaped by cruelty.
Finley took a steadying breath. “Who did this to you,” he asked softly. “Was it someone who lived with you.”
“My dad died,” Evan said flatly. “A long time ago.”
The room fell quiet. If not his father, then who.
The answer arrived faster than expected.
Within the hour, police vehicles surrounded a modest house listed as Evan’s residence. Officers entered expecting resistance or panic. What they found instead made seasoned professionals freeze in disbelief.