CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 8
The room didn’t get louder.
It got smaller.
Like the walls had moved in a few inches without anyone noticing.
My grip on Lily tightened so instinctively it scared me. Not because I was hurting her—but because my body understood something my mind was still refusing to accept:
Helen was still reaching for control.
Even from custody.
My father’s voice came first, low and sharp.
“No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”
The social worker didn’t flinch, but her expression shifted into something more careful.
“I understand this is difficult,” she said. “But I need to follow protocol. A vetted relative can be considered if it reduces immediate risk during investigation.”
My father gave a short, humorless breath.
“A vetted relative,” he repeated. “She threw a baby into a fire pit.”
The words landed heavy again in the small room.
The social worker held her ground. “That is part of the investigation. Not yet a legal conclusion.”
Not yet.
Those two words were everything.
Because Helen lived in the space before conclusions.
Where doubt still existed.
Where influence still worked.
My throat tightened. “She wants my baby.”
The social worker looked at me directly now. “She is requesting emergency kinship placement. That request is being reviewed.”
A request.
As if this were paperwork.
As if Lily were movable.
My father stepped closer to me, not the social worker now—me.
“She’s trying to isolate you,” he said quietly. “Even from here.”
My stomach dropped.
Because I understood what he meant.
If Lily was placed with Helen—even temporarily—it wouldn’t just be separation.
It would be rewriting reality again.
Helen wouldn’t need to argue what happened.
She would simply be the one holding the child when the story was written.
I shook my head. “No. I won’t let that happen.”
The social worker’s voice softened slightly. “Then we need an immediate safety plan that ensures stability with you as the primary caregiver.”
A pause.
Then the next sentence changed everything.
“Which may require supervised placement until home evaluation is completed.”
Supervised.
Placement.
I almost laughed—but it came out as air.
“You mean I can’t even take her home,” I whispered.
“That is not final,” she said quickly. “It is a precaution.”
Precaution.
Everything was a precaution.
Except what had already happened in the backyard.
My father’s jaw tightened. “And Helen Whitmore gets to request custody after attempting homicide?”
The social worker didn’t respond to the word homicide.
She only said, carefully:
“We operate based on evidence thresholds.”
Silence again.
Heavy.
Systemic.
Then—
the door opened.
A different voice entered the room.
“I’ll take it from here.”
A man in a suit stepped inside. Not hospital staff. Not social services.
Legal.
He looked at the file, then at us.
“I’m county counsel,” he said. “I’ve been briefed.”
My father immediately stepped forward. “Then you know what she did.”
The man didn’t deny it.
Which somehow made it worse.
“I know what is alleged,” he corrected.
Alleged.
Again.
My chest tightened until I thought I might drop Lily.
The lawyer continued.
“There is already a petition being prepared for temporary emergency placement review. Multiple parties have submitted statements.”
My father narrowed his eyes. “Helen.”
A pause.
“Yes,” the lawyer admitted.
Of course she had.
Even from custody.
Even while being processed by the system.
She was still moving pieces.
The lawyer looked at me now.
“And I understand there is an immediate concern regarding the child’s placement tonight.”
My voice shook. “She stays with me.”
He nodded slowly. “That is one of the options under consideration.”
My breath caught.
One of.
Not guaranteed.
Not protected.
Considered.
The lawyer opened the file slightly.
“However,” he continued, “given the severity of the allegations and the presence of extended family involvement, the court may impose temporary neutral placement until hearings are held.”
Neutral placement.
A sterile phrase.
A place where love did not matter.
Where intent did not matter.
Only process.
My father stepped closer to me again. “This is insane,” he said quietly. “You’re punishing the only person who saved her.”
The lawyer didn’t react.
“I don’t make determinations,” he said. “I present procedural outcomes.”
I looked down at Lily.
Her eyes were half-closed now.
Safe.
Warm.
Unaware that the world around her had turned into arguments she didn’t consent to.
Something inside me hardened—not into anger, but into clarity.
“Tell me what I need to do,” I said.
Everyone turned toward me.
Even my father.
The lawyer paused.
Then spoke carefully.
“You need to demonstrate immediate, stable caregiving capacity and absence of risk factors in the home environment.”
I swallowed. “And my mother?”
His expression didn’t change.
“She will present her own case.”
Of course she would.
Always a case.
Never accountability.
I looked at my father.
For the first time since everything started, he looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than fear.
He nodded slightly.
“Then we don’t let her speak alone,” he said again.
May you like
But this time it wasn’t just a plan.
It was survival.
