Chapter 5 - The Woman Who Stayed Silent
I stared at the message for a full minute before I typed back.
Who is this?
The reply came in seconds.
Someone who tried to report Paula Rourke six years ago. It went badly. Can we meet?
Her name was Gail Prosser. We met the next afternoon at the Blue Spruce Diner off Route 12, forty minutes from my house — her choice, her booth, her back to the wall. Mid-fifties, with the kind of stillness that comes from years of reading a room before you walk into it. She ordered coffee and didn't touch it.
"How'd you hear about me?" I asked.
"Dana Whitlock called a colleague of mine. Word travels in this world." She looked at me steadily. "You've got Eli now."
"Yes."
"Good kid. I knew that the second I read his file — the real one, not the version Rourke was reciting to placement families."
I leaned in. "You've seen his file?"
"Six years ago I was a compliance officer, contracted by the county to audit three agencies. Rourke's included. I flagged eleven cases where the disruptions followed the exact same pattern — a kid reports a concern about a foster home, gets returned to care within days, and the file notes blame the child's behavior." She wrapped both hands around the cup. "Eli's file was one of the eleven."
"What did you find?"
"It had been amended. I could see the edit timestamps right there in the system. Three separate entries added after the fact — all of them describing behavioral incidents that no teacher, no counselor, no prior caseworker had ever written down. All three authored under the same user account."
"Rourke."
"Rourke."
My throat closed. "What happened when you reported it?"
Her face didn't move, but something behind her eyes did. "I filed a formal findings report with the county oversight board. Two weeks later I was told my contract wouldn't be renewed. The report got classified inconclusive, pending further internal review." She paused. "That review was handed to Rourke's direct supervisor. A man who'd worked beside her for twelve years."
"So nothing happened."
"Nothing happened. I kept copies of all of it. I've been sitting on them for six years, waiting for someone with standing to use them."
She set a manila envelope on the table between us.
"Standing meaning a parent," she said. "Meaning somebody whose child is named in those files. Meaning you."
I looked at the envelope. I didn't pick it up yet.
"Gail — the Deramus stepdaughter. Nora. Do you know where she is?"
Something shifted in her face. Not surprise. Closer to relief.
May you like
"She contacted me eight months ago," Gail said quietly. "She's twenty now. She's been trying to find somebody who would listen." She slid a folded piece of paper out from under the envelope. "She asked me to give this to the right person, if I ever found one."
I picked it up. A phone number. Under it, in small, careful handwriting: Please don't give up on this.
