Chapter 4 - The Empty Estate
The fluorescent lights of the local precinct interview room buzzed with an irritating, low-frequency hum that grated against my already frayed nerves. Ava was curled up on a blue vinyl chair in the corner, fast asleep, her head resting against a rolled-up denim jacket Dana had insisted on bringing. A social worker named Brenda—a kind-looking woman with warm eyes and graying hair—sat quietly beside her, offering coloring books and juice boxes that remained untouched.
I paced the narrow perimeter of the room, my heels clicking rhythmically against the linoleum. Dana leaned against the cold concrete wall near the door, her arms crossed over her chest, chewing methodically on a piece of cinnamon gum.
The heavy metal door clicked open, and Detective Miller walked back in, holding a manila folder thick with printed reports and photographic evidence. He looked older under the harsh lights, the lines around his eyes etched deep with exhaustion.
"Well," Miller said, dropping the folder onto the scratched metal table with a dull thud. "We've processed the scene. The forensic team recovered the hockey stick. It's a senior-league composite stick, heavy duty. There's DNA and bruising alignment that matches the minor's injuries precisely. CPS has officially flagged the residence, and an emergency protective order has been issued preventing Marissa Vance from coming within five hundred feet of your daughter."
"And Marcus?" I demanded, stopping my pacing to glare at him across the table. "Where is the father? We've been trying to reach him for two hours."
Miller winced slightly, exchanging a brief, uncomfortable glance with the social worker. "Mr. Hayes finally returned our calls about twenty minutes ago. He's currently... out of state. Playing in a corporate charity golf tournament down in Scottsdale, Arizona."
Dana let out a harsh, dry bark of laughter that sounded like a gunshot in the small room. "Of course he is. When his daughter is getting assaulted with athletic gear, Marcus is sinking putts for a CEO networking event. Father of the year."
"He stated," Miller continued, clearing his throat and reading from a yellow notepad, "that he had no idea Marissa had a temper like that. He claimed she's usually 'very good with kids' and that Ava must have been—and I quote—'exaggerating or acting out to get attention.'"
My vision flashed hot, blinding red. "Exaggerating? My five-year-old child has a bruised collarbone and terror in her eyes, and he thinks she's *acting out*?"
"We relayed the medical findings to him," Miller said quietly. "He's booked the first available red-eye flight back to Chicago. He'll be landing at O'Hare around midnight. He's demanding a meeting with you, your attorney, and CPS first thing in the morning to discuss 'resolving this misunderstanding.'"
"A misunderstanding," Dana muttered, pushing off the wall and stepping forward. "Tell you what, Detective. When Marcus lands, you let me pick him up from the airport. I'll explain the misunderstanding to him in terms even a golfer can understand."
"Dana," I warned softly, though a dark part of me didn't entirely hate the sentiment. I looked over at sleeping Ava, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneasy rhythms even in slumber. The nightmare had only just begun. Marcus wasn't just going to brush this under the rug with a corporate apology and a checkbook. For four years, since our bitter divorce, he had treated Ava like a weekend accessory—something to show off at country club barbecues to prove what a devoted, modern single father he was, while leaving her in the care of whatever vapid, unstable Instagram influencer he was currently dating.
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"Detective Miller," I said, my voice dropping an octave, steadying with a cold, terrifying resolve. "I want full, sole emergency custody filed before Marcus even steps foot outside O'Hare. I want every single visitation right permanently revoked, effective immediately. And I want Marissa Vance charged with felony child abuse and aggravated assault."
Miller nodded slowly, sliding a multi-page document across the metal table toward me. "The paperwork for emergency sole custody is already drafted, Mrs. Hayes. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line."
