Quinn’s nights turned into research.
Not casually. Not abstractly. He read like someone trying to outrun a clock he couldn’t see. Child welfare statutes. Emergency custody thresholds. Mandatory reporter language. What counted as evidence and what didn’t. What was suspicion. What was concern. What was actionable.
The answers were always the same.
Not enough.
He sat on Paisley’s bed while she showered, laptop balanced on his knees, scrolling through case law that all seemed to hinge on the same brutal requirement. Disclosure. Visible harm. An incident someone else could witness.
Proof that arrived too late.
He closed the laptop and stared at the wall instead.
Paisley came out wrapped in a towel, hair damp, moving carefully like she always did. She paused when she saw him sitting there
