The next morning, the headline was everywhere: “Local Caregiver Charged with Abuse—Evidence Found on Lawn.”

Lydia read the headline three times before she could breathe a sigh of relief. She sat at the kitchen table, half-naked, ready to work, the television on in the background, humming softly. The reporter’s voice was calm and detached:

Legal aid services

“So, this concludes the live broadcast.”

Police had found several disturbing items in the home of Marlin Blake, a 42-year-old mechanic from southeast Portland. The victim, a minor girl, had been taken into custody.

Child psychology books

Lydia turned off the TV. “In custody”… the word was supposed to mean safety, but she had helped children in similar situations so many times that she knew what lay ahead: interviews, medical exams, social workers. And a trauma that never fully went away.

The school hallways were filled with whispers. Students whispered Emily’s name as if she were a ghost. Lydia wanted to tell them to stop, to remind them that Emily was a person, not a story. Instead, she went straight to Principal Harper’s office, where Detective Dalton was waiting for her.

The detective looked like he was from the 70s: professional, with eyes that were careful and experienced, the severity of which was softened by fatigue.

“Mrs. Carter,” he said with a smile, “thank you so much for calling the police. Without you, the girl wouldn’t be alive today.”

Lydia felt both relieved and scared.

“What exactly did you find?”

School supplies

Dalton hesitated.

“There was a locked warehouse on the lawn. Inside were surveillance devices and diaries. They were recording what… what he was doing. It would take time to process this.

Lydia closed her eyes, trying to block out the house from her memory: pale blue and spacious, the dust-strewn caramel mailbox.

“Where is Emily now?”

“She’s with her foster family. Safe. But she doesn’t say much.”

That night, Lydia couldn’t get it out of her mind. She saw herself outside Blake’s house, now surrounded by yellow police tape. It seemed ordinary: the lighted porch, the same pots of flowers on the steps. That kind of ordinaryness was the scariest thing.

Two weeks later, Lydia got a call from Tara Nguyen, the social worker.

Emily asked if she could visit you,” Tara said. “She only trusts a few people these days.”

When Lydia arrived at her foster home, a modest white bungalow in Beaverton, Emily was sitting on the couch, hunched over, hugging a beautiful stuffed animal. Her face was pale, but her eyes met Lydia’s: vulnerable but determined.

“You said…” Emily whispered.

“Yes,” Lydia replied, sitting down next to her, “because I promised you’d be safe.”

Emily nodded, tears streaming down her face.

“I was trying to say… found something. I couldn’t remember everything until they showed me around the room. I thought it was my fault.

“It’s not your fault,” Lydia said firmly. “None of this was your fault.”

For the first time, Emily allowed herself to cry, not quietly from fear, but from relief that someone was finally listening.

The Martin Blake case had begun six months later in Multnomah County. By then, the story had faded from the headlines, replaced by new tragedies. But for Emily and Lydia, nothing was over.

The next day, Lydia was questioned. The courtroom seemed colder than she had imagined: all wood walls, neon lights. Martin sat on the defense side, in a gray suit, slimmer than a few years ago, but still with a sly look. When their eyes met, Lydia felt the same contemptuous gaze she had felt that day in the classroom.

Dana Ruiz, the prosecutor, was asking questions.

—When did the student first talk about her fears?

Lydia’s voice was calm.

—October 14, after class. She said she was afraid to go home because her attentive father “always did this to her.”

—Did she specify what exactly she meant by “this”?

—No. But based on her emotional state, I considered a possible case of violence.

The defense tried to…