Bad Girls

Colleen didn't accuse anyone outright. She's smarter than that. She just repeated what Daisy had said, light as gossip, and watched Tara's face for the crack.

There wasn't one. Tara laughed, easy and warm. "Oh, that's our silly game. Daisy and Pepper both get treats when they're good, and I joke that the bowl's for bad girls when she won't eat her vegetables. She's very literal, this one." She ruffled Daisy's hair. Daisy went rigid under her hand and said nothing at all.

Dad, arriving home in the middle of it, sided with the explanation that let him keep his evening peaceful. Colleen caught my eye across the room, and I understood we were done trying the family's front door.

That night I walked six blocks to the public library, logged into a computer that wasn't ours, and filed an anonymous report with the state child-abuse hotline. My hands were shaking so badly I had to start the online form twice.

Two days later, the house phone rang during dinner. I watched Tara's face while she listened, watched every trace of warmth drain out of it and get rebuilt, piece by piece, into something calmer than calm.

"That was Child Protective Services," she told Dad afterward, voice perfectly level. "Someone filed a complaint. Probably a nosy neighbor. They want to do a routine wellness check on Thursday."

That night, through the crack of Daisy's door, I watched Tara kneel in front of my little sister and say, softly, patiently, exactly what Daisy was and wasn't allowed to say to the nice lady who was coming to visit.