My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

William sat back, breath caught halfway in his chest. The horror of it widened. Not just what had been done to Owen, but the lineage of damage stretching behind it. Sue had built Marsha in the image she considered correct: fearful, compliant in some ways, cruel in others, convinced that domination was love. Marsha had not merely copied methods. She had inherited a worldview.

Angelo continued. “There’s more. Sue ran informal childcare out of her homes in at least two states. Never licensed long enough to leave a full paper trail. I found church bulletins, neighborhood newsletters, referrals. Families who needed cheap help. Vulnerable kids.”

William’s coffee turned bitter in his mouth.

“How many?”

“I don’t know yet.”