“That we can do better for her,” Linda whispered.
The room went still. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked like a metronome measuring the space between the life they had two days ago and this one. Carla clicked off the recorder. “You’re both coming with us.”
News travels at two speeds in small towns: rumor and proof. By noon on Sunday, the Harts had both. Someone posted the convenience store still to a neighborhood group; a deacon’s wife texted that police cars were at the Harts’ house; a daycare teacher repeated what she’d heard at the hospital: that Emily had been found sobbing and hoarse from screaming. Church pews emptied of sympathy and filled with silence. Customers canceled test drives at Hart Auto. Online reviews mutated overnight into moral indictments: “If they treat a child like that, imagine the extended warranty.”
At the station, the interviews hardened into statements. Linda signed hers with a shaking hand. Robert asked for a lawyer and said nothing else. Child Protective Services filed for an emergency order: no contact with Emily without court approval. Carla delivered the news to Megan in the hospital cafeteria, where Megan held a Styrofoam cup so tight the rim folded. “They won’t come near her,” Carla said. “Not unless a judge allows it. Emily’s safe.”
Megan nodded, then looked past Carla, fixing her gaze on some distant point where rage could cool into resolve. “They wanted to teach me a lesson,” she said. “I’ll make sure they learn one instead.”
That night, when the ward quieted and machines hummed like distant waves, Emily woke and whispered, “Are you here?”
“I’m here,” Megan said, and for the first time in two days, the words felt like a promise she could keep.
By Tuesday, the charges were formal: Child Abandonment, Reckless Endangerment, and Conspiracy. The district attorney, Janice Ellery, called it a “calculated act cloaked as concern.” Robert posted bond through a family friend who ran a bail service and walked out stone-faced, jaw set against the cameras. Linda, released on her own recognizance, kept her head down and clutched a purse like a life raft. Neither of them spoke on the courthouse steps. They didn’t need to; everyone else spoke for them.
Inside the hospital, Emily worked through a paper maze book with a child-life specialist. She moved her pencil slowly, backing up when the path dead-ended, finding, with patience, a way through. Megan watched, trying to memorize the slight furrow in Emily’s brow, the tiny quick smiles when she made the right turn. She also met with a therapist, Dr. Savannah Pierce, who explained what the next months could look like—nightmares, clinginess, startle responses—and what helped: consistent routines, choices that gave Emily control (“Do you want the blue or green cup?”), clear statements about safety (“I will not let anyone leave you alone like that again.”).
Megan listened and took notes. She called the nursing home and asked for a reduced schedule; they gave her a week of unpaid leave. She didn’t argue. Money would be a problem—everything was a problem—but there were problems she could live with and problems she couldn’t, and the difference was a child sleeping in her own bed.
