I asked.
“What else?”
“I forget rules.”
“Anything else?”
“I ask why.”
Maya looked away.
Angry.
I continued.
“What do the doctors say?”
Brenna whispered.
“That Dad needs structure.”
I corrected gently.
“That you need structure?”
She nodded.
“He says it means the room is okay.”
No.
No doctor would call that room okay.
Not locked from outside.
Not for nights.
I asked.
“Have any doctors seen the room?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Have teachers?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“Grandma.”
“And?”
“She says Dad is trying.”
I felt that phrase settle heavily.
Trying.
Another word adults use when children are expected to absorb the consequences.
I asked.
“Where are the papers?”
Brenna pointed toward the last door.
“Dad’s office.”
My pulse picked up.
“We’re not going through locked drawers without legal authority.”
She nodded.
Then said.
“The door isn’t locked.”
Maya looked at me.
I said.
“Plain view only.”
We entered.
The office was different from the rest of the house.
Cluttered.
Folders.
Books.
Receipts.
A desktop computer.
Three binders labeled.
BRENNA EDUCATION.
BRENNA MEDICAL.
BRENNA COMPLIANCE.
That last word bothered me.
Compliance.
Not behavior.
Not care.
Compliance.
On the desk sat a document already open.
I did not touch it at first.
I read what I could see.
HOME BEHAVIOR LOG.
