5. The Detective
Okonkwo sat at the kitchen table like she'd been there before, notebook open, voice even and unhurried in the way Rosalind suspected was practiced for exactly this kind of morning.
"Emmett Corliss's foster placement is under active investigation," the detective said. "Several children who passed through that home over the past two years have made disclosures. I can't share details of an ongoing case, but I can tell you it's serious enough that the state pulled his license last week."
Rosalind's hands were flat on the table, pressing down like she needed the wood to hold her up. "My daughter was there. Before us. Eleven weeks."
"I know. That's part of why I'm here." Okonkwo turned a page. "We pulled the visitor logs the state requires foster providers to keep. Your husband's name and vehicle are on it repeatedly. More than we'd expect for a brother helping out."
"How many times?"
"Nineteen, on paper. Evenings, mostly. A few overlap with dates the other children have described as — significant." The detective chose the word carefully, and Rosalind understood exactly why she'd chosen it.
"He told me groceries. A couple times."
"People tell themselves a lot of things, Mrs. Hart. Sometimes they tell other people those things too." Okonkwo's pen tapped once against the notebook, a small, patient sound. "I have to ask you something, and I need you to think carefully before you answer."
Rosalind nodded, throat too tight to speak.
"Has Juniper ever mentioned your husband being at that house? Not just Emmett. Gareth, specifically."
And Rosalind opened her mouth to say of course not, he'd never — and found that the words simply weren't there, because in three days of careful, gentle, terrified questions, that was the one thing she had never once thought to ask her daughter.