Marin read through the information as quickly as possible. “How did you get this?” she demanded, glancing up. “Juvenile records are supposed to be sealed.”
“You hired me because I’m the best. You’re getting what your money pays for.” The investigator took a swallow of his coffee. “He was sixteen when he was charged. Got a slap on the wrist and some community service.”
“Bastard.” Marin glanced at the pictures he had printed out. Gia’s hand in Adam’s. His arm around her shoulders, holding her possessively. Most of them in front of his house, a few at school. “They don’t go out much.”
“No. In my experience, abusers like to do their work at home. Keeps it from getting messy.”
Marin started to agree before catching herself. She knew well the benefits of hiding the hitting from the prying eyes of the world. The fewer people who knew, the safer the abuser was. “Anything else?”
“Like I said, he was sixteen when he was charged.” The investigator leaned back in his chair, assessing her. “You don’t get the same kiddie treatment as an adult.”
“I don’t understand.”
The investigator reached over and pointed to a line on the sheet. Adam’s date of birth. “His birthday is in a week.”
He would turn eighteen. He could be tried as an adult. The wheels in Marin’s head turned and soon everything fell into place. Thanking him for his service, she returned home and took the steps she was sure would destroy Adam. She called child services and set up an appointment. At that meeting, she offered them the necessary proof and her thoughts. Together they laid out the details and follow-up plan. The social worker agreed to arrive at their home at a scheduled time to start the process.
“Gia, Beti, the doorbell is ringing. Can you get it?” Marin calls out now. It’s two in the afternoon on Saturday. Marin cleared her schedule and Gia’s to make sure they’d be home. “Who is it, honey?” Marin calls from her office, waiting for the answer she already knows.
“Mom!” Gia’s voice holds the fear Marin expected. “Come out here.”
Marin takes her time, refusing to show her hand. She leisurely glances in the mirror in the bathroom before heading out. “What is it?”
“Mom, this is a social worker.” Gia’s hands are clasped in front of her, the fear obvious on her face. “I thought I told you . . .”
“Gia,” Marin gives her a warning glance before stretching out her hand to the woman she’s already met a few days before. “I’m Marin, Gia’s mother. How may I help you?”
“Deborah. I’m from child services. We received a report from the school of potential abuse.” She runs her eyes over Gia, an initial assessment of the situation. “I tried calling but didn’t receive an answer, so I took a chance and stopped by.”
“I see.” Marin shows practiced surprise, but Gia is too scared to notice. “Why don’t we speak in the living room?” Marin leads the way. Glancing at the clock on the mantel, she does a quick calculation. She has about an hour before Raj is due home from his tennis game. “I explained to the school that my daughter was participating in a game.” She waves a hand toward Gia, who nods in agreement. “Not a very wise one, but you know kids these days.”
“If that’s the case, then I won’t have to be here long.” Deborah pulls out a notepad and pen. Turning toward Gia, she says, “I’ll just need the first and last names of the friends you’ve been playing this game with.”
“Why?” Gia asks, her voice low.
“To verify the story. Names?”
Gia glances at Marin, her face begging her mother to intercede. To save her. That’s what I’m doing. “Give her the names, sweetheart.”
“I can’t.” Gia swallows visibly. “I don’t want them to get into trouble.”
“I see.” Deborah shuts the notebook. Her gaze intent on Gia, she seems to have come to a decision. “I need to see the bruises.”