Judge Thorne did not ask me whether I was certain.
He had known me for twelve years, first as a young prosecutor who arrived at the courthouse carrying too many files and too little sleep, and later as an assistant attorney general trusted with cases involving financial exploitation, institutional abuse, and public corruption. He knew I did not make emergency calls after dark unless someone was in immediate danger.
“Elena,” he said, his voice turning cold and precise, “send me the photographs, the recording, and a written summary now. Do not confront your brother. Keep your mother behind a locked door if possible. I am contacting the on-call magistrate, the sheriff, and Adult Protective Services.”
My mother sat on the closed toilet lid, wrapped in a white towel, trembling so violently that her knees knocked together.
