Part 2
The bruises on Harper’s arm were not random.
I had seen enough injuries to know the difference between childhood clumsiness and force. Kids fell. Kids bumped into tables. Kids collected scrapes like trophies.
But fingerprints were different.
Fingerprints meant someone had held on when the child tried to pull away.
I kept my voice calm.
“Harper,” I said softly, “who did this?”
Her face went pale.
She yanked her sleeve down so fast her little fingers fumbled with the cuff.
“Nobody.”
“Harper.”
“Nobody,” she repeated, sharper this time.
Not angry.
Terrified.
From the kitchen, Clara’s voice floated in like warm poison
