Page 31 of Open Secrets
I shrugged, forcing something like nonchalance. “Can be. But I’ve been lucky.”
She hummed like she didn’t believe in luck. “And you also have a younger son.”
“August,” I said. “He’s two.”
She glanced at her notes, brows knitting. “Two. So not in school?”
I shook my head. “Usually he stays with my mother-in-law or my dad when I’m at work, but they were busy today.” The truth was neither of them had answered my call.
“He’s here now?”
“Yes.”
“And Rain?”
“Also home. Sick.” My words sharpened; I had already said this. “That’s why I took time off. I’ve been with her.”
Linda’s pen scratched across the paper, steady, unhurried. She looked up again, eyes scanning my face like she was studying more than my answers.
I sat stiff in the chair opposite her, every muscle tight, my arms wrapped across my chest so hard my nails left crescents in my skin.
“Do you have doctor’s notes for her absences?” she asked, voice clipped but polite. “Any records of recent visits, or medication she’s been given?”
I wanted to tell her to get the hell out of my house. I wanted to tell her Rain’s health was none of her damn business. But the threat from earlier still hung in the air—come back with an officer—and the thought of my kids waking up to flashing lights made my throat close.
So instead I forced my voice steady. “Yeah. Of course.”
I pushed back from the chair and walked toward the kitchen, each step heavy with a mix of anger and shame. The counters were cluttered—juice boxes, snack wrappers, the remains of a life running on survival mode. I shoved things aside until I found the small plastic bottles, labels crinkled from being tossedaround too many times. Antibiotics. Fever reducers. The sticky cough syrup Rain hated.
I added the folded discharge papers from the ER visit last night, the ink still sharp where the doctor had scrawled follow-up recommended.
Gathering it all into my arms, I paused, chest tight. This wasn’t proof of neglect. It was proof I was fighting like hell to keep my daughter safe.
When I turned back toward the living room, Linda’s polite smile was still waiting.
I spread the papers across the coffee table, pushing the pill bottles toward her like an offering. Linda skimmed them with her sharp little eyes, her pen still scratching. But when she landed on the folded ER discharge, her face flickered with something almost human.
“You were there last night?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered quickly. “Rain had a nosebleed that wouldn’t stop. They gave her fluids, ran bloodwork. Said she’s anaemic.” My voice cracked, but I forced it steady. “That’s why she’s home. That’s why she’s missed school.”
The visit dragged on—one polite interrogation after another, each question delivered with that same smile. By the time she finally agreed to leave—without waking Rain, who had literally just fallen asleep—I felt wrung out, hollow.
I closed the door behind her, pressed my forehead against the wood, and let out a long, shaking sigh. Since when did a sick kid equal neglect?
I barely made it to the sofa before my knees gave, collapsing into the cushions like a puppet with its strings cut. Five minutes—five minutes of quiet was all I got.
“Mama!”
The cry was sharp, high-pitched, too frantic to be ignored. My body reacted before my brain caught up. I ran, flying up the stairs two at a time, heart thundering so loud it drowned out thought.
I burst into Rain’s room and froze.
August stood in his toddler bed, little fists gripping the rail, eyes huge and wet. He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at his sister.
Rain.
My baby girl lay limp against her pillow, her face slick with blood, the sheets beneath stained deep red.
