Inside, he saw my kitchen table. It was covered in notes, timelines, and photocopies of public records I’d spent the last week gathering.
He picked up a photo of Greg Harper receiving a “Citizen of the Year” award. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Are you here to arrest me for harassment?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“No,” Bennett said, pulling a chair out. “I’m here because three years ago, I handled a case involving a foster child placed with a friend of the Harpers. That child died. Ruled an accident. The coroner was Judge Blackwell’s cousin. The investigation was buried.”
He looked at me, his eyes intense. “When I saw your report—the punishment chair—I knew. It’s the same pattern. But the Captain shut me down. Said the case is closed.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because you found something they missed,” he said. “I saw the drawing you took from the lounge.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You were watching me?”
“I’m watching them,” he corrected. “And they are watching you. Eleanor, this isn’t just about one bad father. This is a network. Foster payments. State subsidies. Children go in, the checks clear, and the children… disappear or get recycled into the system.”
I showed him the drawing of the basement. “She wrote ‘Help them too.’ How many children, Bennett?”
“The Harpers are licensed for two,” he said grimly. “But looking at the water usage for that property? The food delivery receipts I pulled from their trash? It’s enough for an army.”
“We have to go in,” I said.
“We can’t. Judge Blackwell denied the warrant this afternoon. If we go in, it’s breaking and entering. It’s a felony. We lose our jobs, maybe our freedom.”
I looked at the drawing. I thought of the nails. I thought of the way Lily stood, enduring pain because she believed she didn’t deserve to sit.
“I don’t care about my job,” I whispered. “Friday.”
“What?”
“Lily told me once,” I recalled, the memory surfacing. “Uncle Greg says Friday nights are for the visitors. That’s when we have to be extra good.”
Bennett’s face darkened. “Friday visitors. Trafficking. Or exploitation rings.” He checked his watch. “Friday is tomorrow.”
“We go tomorrow night,” I said. “Authorized or not.”
Bennett looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Pack dark clothes. And pray we’re wrong.”
The Harper estate sat on the edge of town, surrounded by a dense thicket of oaks that screamed “old money.” The rain had returned, turning the ground into a slurry of mud that sucked at our boots as we crept through the treeline.
Bennett moved with a tactical grace I couldn’t mimic. I was just a teacher in a raincoat, clutching a flashlight like a weapon.
“Security cameras on the perimeter,” Bennett whispered, pointing to the red blinking lights. “We have a blind spot near the cellar doors. That’s our entry.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. We reached the heavy cellar doors. Bennett pulled out a lockpick kit. His hands were steady. Mine were slick with sweat.
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