"Let me see," I demanded, holding out my hand.
Dean hesitated, glancing at the twins for permission. When they nodded, he passed me a tablet with several files already open.
I scrolled through the medical reports, my stomach tightening with each clinical description of injuries I'd sustained as a child. Broken ribs. Lacerations. Concussions. All meticulously documented, then buried in sealed records.
"There's more," Carter said quietly. "Photos."
I swiped to the next file and froze. The images showed a small girl—myself at eight years old—covered in bruises and cuts, her eyes wide with terror as someone documented her injuries. Another showed the raw carvings on my wrists, still bleeding when the picture was taken.
Maison made a sound like he'd been physically struck. Jackson's face w
