Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Attic
By 4:00 a.m., the ER examination room smelled of antiseptic soap, warm apple juice boxes, and the damp wool of my jacket.
Dr. Aris, a young pediatrician with kind, tired eyes and silver-rimmed glasses, sat on a low stool opposite the exam table. Lizzy was fast asleep now, draped across my lap with an IV line taped securely to the back of her tiny hand—purely precautionary for mild dehydration and low blood sugar, the nurse had said, though the phrase malnutrition had floated through the intake notes like a ghost no one wanted to name out loud.
"Physically, she’s resilient," Dr. Aris said softly, flipping through the electronic tablet. "She’s roughly thirty-percent below the standard weight-to-height curve for a six-year-old. There are older, fading contusions on her upper arms—consistent with being grabbed or squeezed—and minor skin irritation around her wrists where something abrasive was fastened. Not recently, thankfully. Just... chronic."
The word hung in the small, curtained cubicle. Chronic.
"My parents told us she was just a difficult eater," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "They said she threw tantrums, that she hoarded food in her room so they had to lock the pantry, that she was 'manipulative' for her age."
"Children under stress don't manipulate; they survive," Dr. Aris said gently. He looked up from the screen, his gaze meeting mine with unflinching professional weight. "When I spoke to the county social worker ten minutes ago, she pulled up the guardianship file from two years ago. Do you know who signed off on the home visits?"
I shook my head. "A private agency. Not state social services."
"Right. Because Walt and Gloria hired a private family-law firm out of the county seat to handle Ian’s emergency temporary custody filing while Ian was in detox," Adam filled in, his voice dark. "Ian was out of his mind with grief after my sister—Lizzy’s mom—passed away from the pulmonary embolism. He didn't know what he was signing. He thought Mom and Dad were just keeping her safe for six months while he got clean."
"Well, those six months turned into twenty-four," I whispered.
My phone buzzed on the stainless-steel side table. It was a local number. I pressed accept and put it on speaker so Adam could hear.
"Mrs. Hayes?" a deep, weary voice asked. "This is Detective Vance—no relation, I assure you—with the City Police Department, Special Victims and Child Welfare Division. I’m currently standing inside your parents' house on Elm Street."
My heart did a violent double-tap against my ribs. "Are they there?"
"We detained Walt ten minutes ago when he tried to drive off in the Buick," Detective Vance said. "Your mother is currently sitting at the kitchen table refusing to speak without her attorney. Mrs. Hayes... I need you to listen to me very carefully. When my officers opened that upstairs storage closet where you found your niece..."
He paused. Through the phone speaker, I could hear the faint, hollow squelch of heavy boots walking over wet floorboards in the distance.
"...it wasn't just a closet," Vance continued, his voice dropping an octave. "There was a child-size mattress shoved inside a plastic tote liner. There were empty juice boxes pushed behind the baseboard. And embedded in the drywall next to the doorframe, about four feet up, there were fingernail scratches. Dozens of them. Deep enough to flake the plaster."
Lizzy let out a tiny, whimpering sigh in her sleep, her small hand clutching the fabric of my shirt tighter.
"Detective," I said, my voice shaking with a cold, clear fury I didn't recognize as my own. "My brother Ian has been clean for eight months. He just finished his step-down program at the Trinity House recovery ranch yesterday morning. Where is he?"
"That’s the other thing, Mrs. Hayes," Vance said, his tone turning grim. "According to the facility director, Ian called your parents’ house yesterday at noon to tell them he was coming to pick Lizzy up for lunch. Your father told him Lizzy was 'at a birthday party out of town' and that Ian needed to stay away for another month 'to prove himself.' Ian hasn't answered his cell phone since 1:00 p.m. yesterday."
May you like
Adam’s head snapped toward me. "Ian wouldn't just vanish. Not when he was clean and ready to get his daughter back."
"We checked the local hospitals and jail rosters," Vance said. "Nothing. We’re putting out a welfare check on his apartment right now. Stay put at the hospital. A cruiser is going to sit outside your home on Maple Street until we sort out where your brother is."
