Chapter 2 - THE FRACTURE THAT HAD WAITED
At County Memorial Hospital, the children were separated only long enough for examinations.
Peter remained with Drew during the X-rays while a pediatric nurse stayed with Lily. When the technician positioned Drew’s leg, the boy stared at the ceiling and counted backward from twenty.
Peter asked where he had learned to do that.
“Dad used to count when I got shots.”
Aaron had died when Drew was three.
The memory might have been real, reconstructed, or repeated so often that it felt real. Peter did not challenge it.
He counted with him.
A physician named Dr. Samuel Hart came out after midnight.
He did not begin with reassurance.
“Drew has a spiral fracture of the left tibia,” he said. “Based on the healing response visible on imaging, the injury appears to be approximately ten to fourteen days old.”
Peter stared at him.
“He walked seven blocks on it.”
“He crawled much of the distance, according to what he told staff. Either way, the movement likely increased his pain and may have displaced the fracture further.”
“Will he need surgery?”
“Orthopedics is evaluating that. At minimum, he will require reduction and immobilization. We will not know the long-term outlook until swelling decreases and follow-up imaging is completed.”
Peter looked through the observation window.
Drew lay beneath a white sheet, one hand reaching toward the empty space where Lily had been.
“And Lily?”
Dr. Hart’s expression tightened.
“She is dehydrated and significantly underweight for her age. Blood work suggests nutritional deficiencies. We are correcting fluids gradually and monitoring her electrolytes.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
“We expect improvement with treatment, but I will not minimize her condition. She has been deprived of adequate nutrition long enough for her body to adapt to scarcity. Feeding must be supervised.”
Peter pressed both palms against the wall.
“How long?”
“We cannot determine the exact duration from one examination. That is why documentation, growth records, prior medical visits, and additional evaluation matter.”
A woman from Child Protective Services arrived shortly afterward. Her name was Marisol Grant. She spoke quietly and carried no visible judgment, though Peter could see anger restrained behind her professionalism.
She asked Peter about his relationship with the children.
“When did you last see them?”
“Almost four months ago.”
“Before that?”
“Six months.”
“Why so infrequently?”
The honest answer was humiliating.
“Reena kept saying visits upset them.”
“Did you ever request a formal visitation arrangement?”
“No.”
“Did you contact their school or pediatrician?”
“No.”
“Did you have reason to believe they were being harmed?”
“I knew she was isolating them. I didn’t know this.”
Marisol held his gaze.
“Isolation can be a warning sign.”
“I know that now.”
“That is not the same as having known then.”
Peter appreciated that she did not excuse him or punish him with certainty he had not possessed.
“I should have pushed harder,” he said.
“Yes,” Marisol replied. “But right now the priority is what happens next.”
Police officers searched Reena’s address after obtaining emergency authorization based on the children’s statements and medical condition.
Reena was not home.
Her car was gone.
The front door was unlocked.
In the kitchen, officers found a half-full cup of coffee, a purse containing expired coupons, and a grocery list with no children’s food written on it.
The basement door had a sliding bolt mounted on the hallway side.
The lock could be engaged only from outside.
At the bottom of the stairs was a room with concrete walls, a narrow mattress, two plastic buckets, and a battery-operated lantern.
The basement windows had been painted black.
A child’s sweater was wedged beneath the door.
The officers photographed everything before moving objects.
They did not announce that the room proved every allegation. They documented its dimensions, the lock, the food containers, the stains, the bedding, and the location of a broken wooden stair.
Beside the stair, they found dried blood.
Drew later told a forensic interviewer that he had fallen while carrying Lily.
Reena had not taken him to a doctor.
She wrapped his leg with an elastic bandage and locked them downstairs again.
“When did she let you out?” the interviewer asked.
“When she wanted me to clean.”
“How did you escape?”
Drew glanced at Peter.
“The little window by the furnace.”
Police had found the window open. One hinge was bent. Rust and dried blood marked the sill.
Drew had climbed through first, then dragged Lily after him using a bedsheet knotted around her waist.
He had crawled through two yards, crossed a narrow alley, and followed the church steeple until he recognized Peter’s street.
“Why did you come to Uncle Peter?” the interviewer asked.
“Dad said Uncle Peter fixes things.”
Peter heard the statement from the hospital corridor.
He turned away so Drew would not see him cry.
Near dawn, Reena contacted the police through an attorney.
She claimed she had gone to visit a sick friend and returned to discover the children missing.
She denied locking them in the basement.
She said Drew had been injured at a playground and refused medical treatment because he feared doctors.
She accused Peter of manipulating the children because he had always resented Aaron’s decision to leave everything to her.
Her attorney offered to bring her in for an interview later that morning.
Before the call ended, Reena made one request.
She wanted officers to recover a blue notebook she claimed Peter had stolen from the house.
Peter had never heard of it.
May you like
But from his hospital bed, Drew began shaking when Marisol mentioned the color.
“Dad’s book,” he whispered. “She was trying to make me tell her where Dad put it.”
