“I want to be precise,” I said, because I knew words could be twisted. “She wasn’t forgotten in the car. She was intentionally left there.”
Officer Miller’s eyes flicked up to mine at that.
I slid the screenshots across the table. The group chat. The posts. The call logs. I kept my hands steady.
“I’m not protecting them,” I said. My voice was calm, and that surprised me. “I want accountability. I want this documented so it can’t happen again.”
He nodded once. “We’ll review everything,” he said. “Child Protective Services has been notified, as required. They may contact you. If they do, cooperate fully.”
I nodded. “I will.”
Outside the station, the heat hit me like a wall, but the air felt different anyway. Lighter. Or maybe it was just that I’d stopped carrying their story.
When I got home, Lucy was drawing at the kitchen table. Her tongue poked out in concentration as she colored something with furious intensity. She looked up when I came in.
“Did you tell them?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, kneeling beside her. “I told them.”
She considered this, then nodded and went back to her drawing.
Kids are efficient. When they trust you, they don’t need speeches. They need consistency.