AFTER ONE YEAR OF HELL, A BAREFOOT GIRL WHISPERED: “YOUR SON SLEEPS IN MY HOUSE.”

You tell her. You give her the house number twice.

There’s a pause. Not the dispatcher pause. This one is heavier, the kind that means the detective’s brain is doing math you don’t want to hear.

“That address,” Reyes says slowly, “has been mentioned before.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “In Leo’s case?”

“In other cases,” she corrects. “Not officially. Not enough to get a warrant. But enough that my gut remembers it.”