“She said Lily has an ‘active imagination.’”
I almost blacked out from rage.
My daughter was bleeding in a pediatric trauma unit—
and my wife called it imagination.
“What exactly happened tonight?” I demanded.
Chloe swallowed hard.
“One of the nurses got Lily to write a little more.”
She handed me another sheet.
The words were shaky and broken apart by smudged tears.
GRANDPA GOT MAD.
MOMMY CRIED.
I HID.
HE SAID I WAS BAD LIKE MY DADDY.
My knees weakened.
Robert hated me.
Not politically.
Personally.
I had exposed corruption in Massachusetts years before meeting Olivia. Robert Sterling never forgave journalists who made powerful men look human.
But now—
my daughter was caught inside whatever twisted war he’d been fighting in his head.
Then I saw the final line written at the bottom of the page.
HE HURT MOMMY TOO.
Everything inside me went cold.
—
At 10:17 AM, two Boston detectives arrived.
Detective Elena Ruiz.
Detective Paul Mercer.
Ruiz looked exhausted before she even sat down.
“Mr. Davis,” she said carefully, “your daughter’s injuries triggered mandatory abuse escalation.”
“Good,” I snapped.
“Because somebody abused her.”
Mercer exchanged a glance with Ruiz.
Then he opened a file.
“We visited the Sterling estate this morning.”
I leaned forward immediately.
“And?”
“The staff claimed Lily ran away after a tantrum.”
“A tantrum?” My voice exploded loud enough that nurses turned in the hallway.
“She ran barefoot through freezing weather!”
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