Chapter 5 - THE WORKSHOP
The workshop sat behind the house.
Detached.
Metal-sided.
The stepfather was a residential contractor.
Tools.
Ladders.
Compressors.
Framing equipment.
Tie-down straps.
Workbenches.
Nothing unusual about most of it.
Police needed more than suspicion to search.
They obtained a warrant based on:
Darby’s hospital statement,
medical findings,
school report,
timeline inconsistencies,
and her reference to “garage boots.”
Ames stayed home.
Good.
He had learned.
Detective Ellis called afterward.
“We collected several items.”
“What?”
“I can’t list everything yet.”
“Straps?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
“Anything proving what happened?”
“No single item proves the whole thing.”
Good.
Real.
The workshop contained multiple ratchet straps.
Cargo ties.
Bungee cords.
Normal contractor equipment.
Investigators seized only items with characteristics potentially relevant to the medical findings.
They photographed the floor.
The workbench.
A small utility sink.
The hooks on one wall.
The rain boots’ brand matched a pair sold in bulk through a contractor supplier the stepfather used.
Again:
not proof.
Then forensic technicians swabbed the boots.
What did they find?
Mostly dirt.
Rubber.
Common construction dust.
Trace red pigment.
Wood fibers.
Ames wanted a revelation.
There was none.
Evidence accumulates slowly.
The arm fracture was more useful.
Dr. Patel concluded the fracture could have happened from a fall.
But the timing remained inconsistent.
There was callus development beginning around the injury.
Potentially older than one day.
Radiology could not pinpoint an exact hour.
But the “fell yesterday” story became less certain.
The sling?
The stepfather had purchased it at a pharmacy before bringing Darby to hospital.
Why wait?
He claimed she did not seem badly hurt initially.
Then why school note five days earlier?
He said separate strain.
Possible.
Convenient.
Then Nora spoke to police again.
This time privately.
Twenty-three minutes.
Afterward, she returned to the house.
Ames nearly lost his mind.
“Why would they let her go back?”
“Because she is an adult,” Naomi said.
“He’s abusing her.”
“Possibly.”
“She’s afraid.”
“Possibly.”
“Then do something.”
“Law cannot imprison adults for refusing shelters.”
Ames stood.
Sat.
Stood again.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
Then Naomi said:
“Your job is Darby.”
That landed.
Ames could not rescue Nora by destroying his own custody case through reckless confrontation.
Darby needed one stable adult.
So he focused.
School.
Meals.
Medication.
Follow-up imaging.
Therapy.
Sleep.
Darby woke screaming twice.
Not words.
Just panic.
Ames sat near the bed.
Did not touch until she reached.
Then one night:
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Mom knows.”
Ames’s chest tightened.
“Knows what?”
Darby rolled toward the wall.
“That I didn’t fall.”
Ames did not ask how.
He said:
“Okay.”
“Are you mad?”
“At Mom?”
Tiny nod.
“I’m worried about her.”
“She said sorry.”
“When?”
Darby realized she had said too much.
Her eyes widened.
Ames backed off immediately.
“You don’t have to explain.”
But one clue had slipped through.
Nora had apologized to Darby.
For knowing.
Or for not stopping it.
The next morning, Nora appeared at Ames’s apartment.
Alone.
He opened the door.
She looked normal.
Jeans.
Sweater.
Hair tied back.
Then she lifted the sleeve.
Bruises.
Old and new.
Ames stopped breathing.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
She entered.
Looked toward Darby’s bedroom.
“Is she here?”
“At school.”
Nora nodded.
Then said the sentence that ended any remaining ambiguity.
“She wasn’t lying.”
Ames stared at her.
“About what?”
Nora looked toward the floor.
“I’m not ready to say all of it.”
He wanted to scream.
Instead:
“Then say what you can.”
She swallowed.
“He told her the boots stayed on until the bruises faded.”
There.
Not the full secret.
Not yet.
May you like
Enough.
And when Ames asked whose bruises she meant, Nora started shaking too badly to answer.
