Avery took another drink.
Then she whispered:
“Noah is still there.”
Bear did not ask Avery twenty questions.
Reese did not demand names.
They did not tell her to prove anything.
Reese had taught everyone at Iron Haven the basics years earlier after a teenage runaway had once sought shelter there.
Don’t interrogate.
Don’t promise things you cannot guarantee.
Don’t touch without permission.
Listen.
Call professionals.
Keep the child safe.
Bear pointed toward an old leather chair near the office.
“Would you like to sit?”
Avery hesitated.
Then nodded.
Mateo quietly dragged the chair closer.
Avery sat on its edge.
Reese placed a folded towel beneath her bare foot.
“I’m going to call an ambulance so someone can look at your leg.”
Avery panicked instantly.
“No police.”
Reese paused.
“I said ambulance.”
“They’ll call him.”
“Who?”
Avery’s eyes moved toward the door again.
“The sheriff.”
Bear and Reese looked at one another.
Fairview Falls had one elected sheriff.
Dean Rourke.
His photograph appeared everywhere that weekend.
He was honorary chairman of Founders Weekend.
He had coached Little League.
His wife organized Christmas food drives.
His campaign slogan had been painted across half the barns surrounding town:
CHARACTER. COMMUNITY. COURAGE.
Bear had never particularly liked him.
That meant nothing.
Bear disliked plenty of people.
Reese stayed calm.
“Why are you afraid of Sheriff Rourke?”
Avery’s fingers tightened around the bottle.
“He brings the red folder.”
Bear frowned.
“What red folder?”
Before Avery answered, a motorcycle roared outside.
Every muscle in her body locked.
Bear turned.
It was only Knox Daniels returning from a parts run.
But Avery had already pulled both knees toward her chest.
Reese saw it.
So did Bear.
“It’s okay,” Bear said quickly. “That’s Knox. He works here.”
Knox walked through the door carrying a cardboard box.
He stopped.
“What happened?”
Bear lifted one hand.
“Later.”
Reese walked into the office and called emergency services.
She specifically reported an injured child and possible abuse.
Then she called Missouri’s child-abuse hotline.
Then, using an old contact from the hospital, she called someone with the regional child-protection office rather than relying entirely on Fairview Falls.
When she returned, Avery had begun speaking again.
Not about herself.
About Noah.
“He’s six,” she whispered. “He sleeps in the room across from mine.”
“Where?” Bear asked.
“The yellow house.”
Bear knew immediately.
Everyone did.
Hawthorne House.
It wasn’t officially called that anymore.
The Victorian mansion on Willow Street had become a temporary children’s residence operated by Fairview Family Services.
Its director, Marian Bell, was practically local royalty.
Marian spoke at churches about vulnerable children.
She posed for newspaper photographs during toy drives.
She ran scholarship breakfasts.
For fifteen years, Fairview Falls had watched her collect awards for compassion.
Avery stared at the water bottle.
“They put Noah downstairs because he kept asking when his mom was coming.”
Reese’s face changed.
“Downstairs where?”
“The quiet room.”
“What is the quiet room?”
