The sharp knock broke the stillness of the morning. At the Curtis door, Captain Gregory Block hesitated, his radio crackling feebly on his hip.
Inside, there was a faint cry of a child. Time seemed to stop for a second.
With red eyes and a steady mouth, Janice Curtis opened the door. “You’re here for my son,” she muttered. Block’s expression tightened. He followed her eyes to the corridor, where a tiny hand clutched the wall’s edge before disappearing.
“He’s fine,” Janice blurted out. Her breath caught. “Kids get bumps.” Block looked at the dust, the mismatched slippers, and the living room. He asked softly, “Can I talk to him?” but his voice faltered.
With a look of uncertainty on her face, Janice nodded but remained near. Her son’s eyes met Block’s, simultaneously suspicious and trusting. “Have you been harmed?” Block enquired. Silently, the boy shook his head.
Stories quickly became twisted behind closed doors after that day. First on official visits, then on his own, Block came back when no one else was around. There were rumours circulating about what transpired between him and Janice. A file vanished from the office. The words on file did not match the evidence.
Block was staring at his own reflection one late night as guilt and uncertainty fought inside his chest. “It was meant to shield him,” he whispered in a thin voice, but the reality was more complicated than any admission could resolve.
The once-clear distinction between right and wrong had vanished by the time investigators arrived. First on Janice, then on Block, handcuffs gleamed in the sunlight. Silence weighed more heavily than any verdict that might be rendered.