"Daddy put something in my sister's belly," a seven-year-old girl told the officer at the front desk.

Diane Marsh found the number for Ruth Sinclair at 8:40 p.m.

She was Douglas's mother — the girls' paternal grandmother — the one Charlotte had mentioned.

The one Douglas had stopped from visiting because she asked too many questions.

The phone rang twice.

"Hello?" The voice was alert for that hour.

Alert in the way of someone who had been waiting for a call they always feared would come.

"Mrs.

Sinclair, my name is Diane Marsh.

I'm a child protective services worker at Mercy General Hospital.

Your granddaughters are here.

They're safe.

But I need to ask you some questions."

A long silence.

Then: "I knew it.

I knew it.

I told him — I told Douglas — I said something was wrong with Delilah and he looked me right in the eye and told me I was imagining things." Her voice cracked.

"How bad is she?"

"The doctors are with her now.

She's stable." Diane paused.

"Mrs.

Sinclair, when did you last see the girls?"

"Six weeks ago.

He stopped my visits.

Said I was confusing them, filling their heads with worry." A short, bitter sound.

"I drove past the house twice just to see if the lights were on.

I called the school once and they said Delilah had been absent.

I called Douglas and he said she had a cold."

"Did you contact anyone else?"

A pause.

"I called the pediatrician's office.

Their regular doctor.

Dr.

Amara Osei — she's been their doctor since they were born.

I left a message saying I was concerned.

That was three weeks ago."

"Did she call you back?"

"No.

But I got a letter from Douglas's attorney two days later telling me that any further contact with his children's medical providers would be considered harassment."

Diane wrote that down.

"Mrs.

Sinclair, I'd like you to come to the hospital tonight if you're able.

I need to speak with you in person, and the girls may need a familiar face."

"I'm already in my coat," Ruth said.

Diane ended the call and looked at Terrence, who had been standing in the doorway.

"The pediatrician," he said.

"Dr.

Amara Osei.

Ruth called her three weeks ago with concerns.

No callback.

Then Douglas's attorney sent a letter." Diane tapped her pen against the notepad.

"Either the pediatrician never got the message, or she got it and did nothing, or—"

"Or Douglas got to her first," Terrence said.

"We don't know that yet."

"No," he agreed.

"We don't."

Down the corridor, the door to the consultation room opened.

Douglas stepped out and looked toward them.

He had his phone in his hand again.

"I want to speak with my daughters," he said.

"Now."

"That's not possible at this time," Diane said.

"I have rights.

I am their father and I have legal rights."

"You have rights that are currently being evaluated in the context of an active protective hold.

A hospital attorney has been notified.

You're welcome to contact your own attorney."

Douglas's eyes moved to Terrence.

"Is this your doing?"

"I'm here as the responding officer," Terrence said.

"The hold was initiated by the medical team on intake."

"On whose recommendation?"

"On the basis of what they observed when Delilah arrived."

Douglas took two steps toward them.

His voice dropped.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully.

I have been a physician in this county for fourteen years.

I have colleagues on this hospital's board.

I have a lawyer who has handled situations far more complicated than a misunderstanding between a confused child and an officer who overstepped.

By tomorrow morning, that custody order will be enforced, those girls will be home, and you—" he looked directly at Terrence "—will be explaining your conduct to your lieutenant."

"Lieutenant Garrett?" Terrence asked.

Douglas didn't answer.

But his chin lifted slightly.

"I look forward to that conversation," Terrence said.

The elevator at the end of the corridor opened.

Ruth Sinclair stepped out — a small woman in her seventies, white coat still half-buttoned, handbag clutched in both hands.

She saw Douglas first.

She stopped.

Douglas turned.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ruth looked past her son to the chair where Charlotte was sitting, and Charlotte looked up and saw her grandmother, and whatever composure the seven-year-old had been holding together for the past four hours came apart all at once.