The limits made everyone furious.
But the law existed for reasons too.
You could not simply relocate a child because a roomful of adults believed something was wrong.
Joe walked Noah home.
Barker followed at a distance on his motorcycle.
Not to threaten.
To make sure Joe did not walk back alone after dark.
At the yellow house, Noah stopped.
“If I’m late.”
He whispered.
“What?”
“He’ll call my caseworker.”
“He says I’ll get moved to a group home.”
“You been in one?”
“Three.”
Joe felt sick.
“This is number four.”
Noah said.
“After a while they stop trying.”
“That is not true.”
“It is.”
“Who told you?”
“Other kids.”
Joe looked toward the house.
“Noah.”
The boy turned.
“You are not a file number.”
Noah gave him a tiny, exhausted smile.
“That sounds like something adults say before they leave.”
Then walked inside.
Joe stood there long after the door closed.
He called Keller.
“We need something fast.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Joe said.
“I mean fast.”
Keller’s voice stayed measured.
“Molina is filing for an emergency welfare check tomorrow morning.”
“She has photographs.”
“School nurse records.”
“Attendance issues.”
“Now Clive’s behavior at the clubhouse.”
Joe breathed out.
“Good.”
Then Keller added:
“And Tina found something.”
Tina’s Diner sat near the edge of town.
Red vinyl booths.
Coffee strong enough to damage paint.
Breakfast all day.
Tina Alvarez had owned it eighteen years and worked there twelve before that.
The Rust Fangs ate there often enough to have unofficial assigned tables.
That night, Tina placed an old cardboard file box on the counter.
Keller.
Joe.
Molina.
And Detective Aaron Beck from Maple Ridge Police stood around it.
Beck was fifty.
Tired-looking.
Careful.
Not impressed by motorcycle patches.
Tina opened the box.
“Employment records.”
She said.
“Old ones.”
“Before everything was digital.”
She pulled a file.
EMMA COLLINS.
Keller looked at Molina.
Molina stared back.
Noah’s last name.
Tina removed a photograph.
A Polaroid.
Young woman.
Maybe twenty.
Dark hair.
Tired smile.
Holding a baby wrapped in blue.
The baby’s eyes were unmistakable.
On the back:
NOAH — FOUR MONTHS.
MY WHOLE WORLD.
Joe sat down.
Tina said:
“Emma worked here.”
“When?”
Beck asked.
“Twelve years ago.”
“Maybe a little more.”
“She was young.”
“No family nearby.”
“She rented a room in the east end.”
“What happened?”
“She disappeared.”
Molina leaned forward.
“Reported?”
“I called police.”
Tina replied.
“Somebody filed a missing-person report.”
“Two days later, an officer told me she probably left town voluntarily.”
“She had a baby.”
“She wouldn’t leave him.”
“Where was the baby?”
Tina looked at Molina.
“That’s the part I never understood.”
“She’d started letting a couple watch him during shifts.”
“Clive and Barbara Henderson.”
Nobody spoke.
Tina continued.