“They told Emily and the grandparents Zane had the flu that Christmas. They wouldn’t let anyone see him—germs, Bigelow said. I’ve got their statements, too.”

Disgust in the motion, he pulled papers out of the file he held, tossed them on Bost’s desk. “I’ve got Britt’s statement.” He tossed another. “Everything that boy wrote there is God’s truth.

“You didn’t begin to do your goddamn job on this.”

“Don’t tell me about my job,” Bost hurled back. “I know Graham and Eliza.”

“Do you, Tom?”

Chin jutted, Bost jabbed a finger at Lee. “You’re trying to tell me Graham beats his wife, his kids, and they all lie to cover it? That not once until last night have we gotten a nine-one-one from that house?”

“That’s right. Zane started writing it down that day, the day you’ve got there. And he kept writing it. The punches, the slaps, the fear, the threats. And the mother, she went along. I had her thirteen-year-old girl tell me how after her father knocked her mother around, they’d have sex. And he’d buy his wife something special. I had that kid look me in the eye and tell me she thinks her mom liked it.”

“Britt’s been traumatized. She—”

“Damn fucking right she has.” Mild was done. “Look back, for Christ’s sake. The kid calls for help, and when you get there, he’s put her out so you can’t talk to her. Zane’s lying at the bottom of the steps, broken arm, concussion, torn ligaments. But you don’t listen.”

“The two adults gave the same story. Two people I know.”

“I’ll give you that. But you don’t take a statement from the boy? You don’t question the father demanding his son’s arrest, how he pushed it through? How you helped push it through? How he wouldn’t even give the kid a night in the hospital? Didn’t arrange for a child advocate, a lawyer, nothing. Just lock him up? He said it was probably drugs, but the kid’s clean. Did you bother reading the tox results?”

Lee yanked another paper out of the file, slapped it on the desk. “Clean.” He snatched up one of the papers. “This is what Britt says happened last night. Read it. Put it the hell together.”

“I’ve known Graham for over twenty years, for God’s sake. Eliza even longer. I’ve had dinner at their house. I’ve been in that house, Lee, and never saw a sign of this.”

“Read it.”

When he had, Tom rose, turned to his window. “I believed him. You weren’t there, you didn’t see them. I believed him. If you’d asked me twenty-four hours ago to name the perfect family in Lakeview, I’d have said the Bigelows.”

He raked both hands through his hair. “Most would’ve said just the same. Goddamn it, Lee, they’d have said the same. Now I think of little things, Jesus Christ. How he’d go on about how proud he was of Zane, but then cut that down just a little. How he had to keep on him to study because he had pipe dreams about playing pro baseball. How he had to be nagged to do chores, or how he talked back to his mother. Little things—you don’t have kids yet, Lee. You expect some griping about kids, especially teenagers.”

He turned back. “Eliza was president of the damn PTA. She—God.”

“There’s more you’ll want to read. I’m leaving copies for your files.” Lee got to his feet. “I’m going to Lakeview Terrace and arresting Graham Bigelow on charges of child and spousal abuse, on assault, on child endangerment. I’m arresting Eliza Bigelow on charges of child abuse and child endangerment. This was just a heads-up.”

“I believed him.” There was a plea in the tone now. “I believed Zane was a danger to them, and to himself.”

“You were wrong. Zane’s going to be processed out, and his record will be expunged. Emily Walker will have temporary custody of both minor children. I’m going to do everything I can do to make that permanent.

“Read the rest,” he said, and walked out.

Ten minutes later, with his usual partner and four uniformed cops, Lee rang the bell in Lakeview Terrace.

He pegged the guy who answered as a lawyer, and held up the warrants. “Asheville Police.”

“I’m the Bigelows’ attorney. I have calls in right now to your captain, to Asheville’s mayor. You’re holding a minor child against her parents’ wishes.”

“Read the warrant.” Lee muscled by him, into the big, high-ceilinged foyer, and straight into the living room, where Graham Bigelow surged to his feet.

“Graham Bigelow, you’re under arrest for child and spousal abuse, child endangerment, assault.” As he spoke, Lee spun Graham around to cuff him.

Graham spun back, punched out. “Add resisting and assault on a police officer. You have the right to remain silent.”

“Graham, cooperate,” the lawyer ordered while Lee read Graham his rights. “Don’t say anything. I’ll have this dealt with quickly.”

But Graham ignored him, punched out again until two uniforms moved in to restrain him.

“You can’t do this!” Eliza, her face bearing bruises, clutched her hands between her breasts. “This is insane. Zane—”

“That boat won’t float, Mrs. Bigelow, and you are under arrest for child abuse, child endangerment, accessory to assault, for lying in a police report.”

She batted him away as he Mirandized her. “Don’t you touch me! Graham!”

“Eliza, try to stay calm, say nothing. It’s not necessary to cuff her,” the lawyer insisted.

“Disagree,” Lee said, and did so.

It gave him enormous pleasure to perp-walk her out of the house, to see neighbors come out to stare, to put a hand on her head to load her into the car.

He had Graham loaded in a separate car. No more talking, no more coordinating stories.

No more making their kids’ lives a living hell.

“We will have your badge for this,” the lawyer warned. “And file a lawsuit that will bury your department, and you personally.”

“Yeah, you try that.”

“Don’t attempt to speak to my clients. They have nothing to say.”

“Fine. They can sit in a cell until you work that out. I’ve got somewhere else to be anyway.”

* * *

Zane didn’t have to make the bed when they told him to get up. He’d lain on top of the covers. He hadn’t slept.

He tried to eat breakfast without thinking about it, without looking up or at any of the other prisoners. Some of them talked, some talked trash, some ate like they were starving, some barely ate at all.

The big room—like a dining hall, he guessed—echoed a lot, the dull beat of plastic spoons and forks against the plates, the scrape of chairs, the mutter of voices.

Somebody swiped the biscuit off his plate. He didn’t care, and his lack of objection earned him a kick in his ankle boot under the table and a snicker.

After breakfast, they filed out as they had filed in. They took him to the infirmary.

The doctor there read a chart. He guessed somebody had sent one from the ER. He frowned a lot, then asked a lot of questions.

Blurred vision?

No.

Headache?

Yes.

He frowned more when he took off Zane’s shirt and saw the bruises on his belly, his ribs.

Asked more questions.

He took off the boot, examined the ankle. Elevated it, put ice on it as he examined the splint.

More questions.

He probed, gently, at Zane’s nose, his cheeks, under his eyes.

“Was your nose broken previously?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“My father’s fist.”

The prison doctor looked directly, for a long time, in Zane’s eyes.

“Does your father beat you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you reported the beatings to the authorities?”

“He’s the authority.”

He thought he heard a sigh.

A male nurse had to give him a sponge bath because he couldn’t manage a shower.

“You should have been kept at the hospital overnight for observation, for pain management. I’m going to recommend you be transferred back under Dr. Marshall’s care.”

“They won’t. My father’s chief surgical resident. He wants me here.”

He gave Zane a crutch—he could only use one because of the splint—but it helped. So did whatever he gave him for the pain.

“I’m going to have you taken back to your room, for rest. Dr. Loret, the center’s therapist, will come to you later this morning. Keep your ankle and your arm elevated.”

So he went back, to the solitude, the quiet. He could hear things through the door. Voices, movement, snapped orders, maybe someone dragging a bucket and mop.

He drifted a little. Not really sleep, but a zoning out, back in, back out.

When he heard the locks, he closed his eyes. He hoped the therapist would think him asleep, just leave him alone. He didn’t want to talk about it. He’d exhausted everything he had to say already in the infirmary.

But he felt the bed give under someone’s weight. Opened his eyes.

He saw a man who looked as tired as he felt, one who hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Brown hair and eyes, a suit and tie.

“Zane, I’m Detective Keller, Asheville PD.”

A cop, he thought. Another cop. And closed his eyes again.

“Zane.” He felt a hand on his arm—not restraining, just making contact. “I’m here to take you out.”

“Out where?”

“Out of here. Zane, your sister came to see me.”

His eyes flashed open again. “Britt. Is she okay? Is she—”