Chapter 13 - The Report Against MeThe letter arrived on a Tuesday.
It informed me that a child protective services worker wanted to meet with me concerning a report about Rosie's safety.
I read it three times.
Then I called Leah.
"Celeste did this."
"We don't know who made the report," she answered.
"Who else would?"
"Daniel, focus on responding appropriately."
I paced across my kitchen.
"They hurt Rosie, and now somebody's investigating me?"
"An investigation doesn't mean the allegations are true. It means someone has raised a concern that needs assessment."
I stopped pacing.
"What do they want?"
"Cooperation. Accurate information. A chance to assess Rosie's situation."
I looked toward the living room.
Rosie was sitting on the carpet, teaching her stuffed rabbit how to brush its teeth.
She had no idea that another adult might ask questions about her home.
The unfairness made me dizzy.
The allegations centered on my supposed violent conduct at the gala and concerns about my ability to regulate my anger around Rosie.
There was no allegation that I'd struck my daughter.
But the description of the statue falling and Celeste getting hurt made the incident sound terrifying.
Because it had been terrifying.
Just not for the reasons the report implied.
Leah advised me to provide the medical documentation, identify the police investigation, and answer the worker's questions directly.
"Don't spend the entire meeting attacking Celeste," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because the worker's responsibility is Rosie's safety, not deciding who deserves to win a family argument."
That sentence stayed with me.
When the worker visited, I showed her Rosie's room, explained our routines, and provided the information she'd requested.
I didn't try to make my life look perfect.
I told her Hannah had died eighteen months earlier.
That Rosie still had difficult nights.
That I sometimes struggled with grief.
And that I was working with professionals to make sure she received appropriate support.
The worker asked about the gala.
I described what happened without raising my voice.
Then she asked a question I hadn't expected.
"Have you ever lost your temper in front of Rosie?"
I hesitated.
"Yes."
"Can you tell me about that?"
I sat back.
"Not physically. I've never hit her. But I've shouted during stressful moments."
"At her?"
"Once, after she wandered toward the street while I was unloading groceries. I yelled because I was frightened."
"What happened afterward?"
"I apologized and explained why I was scared."
The worker watched me.
"Do you feel your anger is something you need help managing?"
I thought about Victor's hand gripping my jacket.
About how badly I'd wanted to strike him.
About the hours I'd spent imagining revenge.
"Yes," I answered.
There was no point pretending otherwise.
"And are you willing to seek that help?"
"I already made an appointment."
That was true.
Leah had suggested counseling after hearing how much the incident was consuming me.
I'd resisted initially.
Not because I thought therapy was pointless.
Because admitting I needed support felt like conceding something to the Whitcombs.
Now I understood that my daughter shouldn't have to live with the consequences of my pride.
When the worker left, I felt exhausted.
The visit had been professional.
Respectful.
Nothing like the interrogation I'd imagined.
But I still hated that Rosie's safety had become a weapon in a financial argument.
That evening, Celeste's attorney sent Leah another letter.
The proposed settlement remained available.
However, the family expressed concern that continued conflict could expose Rosie to more distress.
They suggested that accepting the arrangement would allow everyone to move forward peacefully.
Leah read the letter over the phone.
Then she stopped.
"There's a sentence I want you to hear."
I waited.
"'The family hopes Mr. Mercer will prioritize the child's emotional stability over unnecessary financial confrontation.'"
I laughed once.
It sounded ugly.
"They pushed her onto a floor."
"I know."
"And now they're telling me to protect her by signing their papers?"
"That appears to be the pressure they're applying."
I looked at Hannah's letter resting on my desk.
Don't let them make this about my behavior instead of what they're doing.
I could almost hear her saying it.
"They're using Rosie's trauma to make me stop asking questions."
"That's a reasonable concern."
"What do we do?"
"We document it. We respond through counsel. And we keep pursuing the records."
The following morning, the police contacted Leah again.
A witness had confirmed seeing Celeste grab Rosie before the fall.
It was someone whose account the investigators could compare with the video.
Not June.
Not me.
And not someone we'd approached.
For the first time since the gala, I allowed myself to feel a small amount of relief.
Then Leah explained who it was.
"One of the security guards."
I stared at the phone.
"The people Victor hired?"
"Yes."
"The same guards who tried to keep me from leaving?"
"One of them told investigators he believed he had been given misleading information about what happened."
I slowly sat down.
May you like
Victor hadn't controlled everyone.
And the cracks were beginning to show.
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