“You’re nineteen,” Denise cooed. “Go enjoy your life. Let the grown-ups raise her.”
When I refused, child services began receiving complaints — that I left Vicky alone, barely fed her, frightened her with my temper. Every lie brought another inspection.
And every weekend Denise took Vicky, she came home in tears.
“They get mad because I won’t call them Mommy and Daddy,” she whispered.
Then one afternoon I arrived early, my bike tire flat, and crouched under their open window to patch it.
“The sooner we get guardianship and ship that girl off to boarding school, the better,” Denise snapped. “All she does is cry for my sister. I’m sick of it.”
“Just hold on, dear,” Howard replied. “Think about all the money. Once it’s ours, we’ll never have to work another day.”
My hands were trembling.
The next day was the final hearing.
Denise arrived dressed to the nines. “Let’s settle this quickly. My daughter, Vicky, and I have a busy day.”
But there was one thing Denise didn’t know.
When I’d crouched under that window, my phone had been recording the whole time.
PART 2
