My granddaughter called me from the hospital at 3:17 in the morning, and before I even reached the ER, I already knew this was the night everything in our family would finally come into the open.

Then I got out of the car and walked inside.

James saw me before I reached the nurse’s station. He was standing with a resident and a tablet, reviewing images, his shoulders carrying the unmistakable shape of unfinished work. The moment the automatic doors opened and he recognized me, he handed the tablet to the resident without looking back at it and crossed the floor toward me.

“Dorothy.”

“James. Tell me where she is and tell me what you filed.”

He studied me for half a beat. “I haven’t filed yet.”

Most people, hearing that, would have raised their voice. I did not.

“Why not?”

“Because the mother corroborated the stepfather’s story. The girl refused treatment twice while he was in the room, and I wanted to know whether she had family coming before I locked the mechanism into the chart. I suspected, but suspicion isn’t filing.” He lowered his voice. “I had my charge nurse give her access to a private line about ninety minutes ago.”

I looked at him then, fully.

“Thank you.”