My six-year-old nephew dragged his broken leg across seven blocks of pavement to reach my porch, with his starving three-year-old sister clinging to his shirt.

Just after nine, Peter stood in Aaron’s old split-level while detectives and a children’s-services worker moved room to room under harsh portable lights. Reena sat at the dining table with her jaw set, repeating, “This is harassment,” while an officer photographed every door in the basement.

The room was smaller than Peter had imagined, which somehow made it worse. A thin mattress lay on the floor. There was a plastic bucket in one corner, two childproof doorknob covers piled on a shelf, and a latch mounted on the outside of the door where only an adult could reach it. The scratches around the frame came from the inside.

Detective Hanley crouched near them in silence.

On the basement steps Peter found what Drew must have been talking about: a small brass padlock and a length of frayed cord. He also found stale cracker crumbs ground into the concrete near the door.

“Sensory room,” Reena said from upstairs when Marisol held up the mattress. “Drew gets overstimulated. His pediatrician suggested quiet time.”

“A pediatrician suggested an exterior lock?” Hanley asked.

Reena said nothing.

Peter went into the kitchen and opened a cabinet out of habit, looking for a glass of water. Inside were stacked plastic bins labeled with dates in Aaron’s blocky handwriting—insurance, taxes, union papers. Reena rushed toward him so fast an officer had to step between them.

“Those are private,” she snapped.

That, more than anything, told Peter there was something in the house she feared more than the basement.

Outside, while neighbors watched from porches, Reena shouted after him, “You always wanted Aaron’s life. Now you want his kids too.”

Peter kept walking until Hanley caught up beside him and said quietly, “This isn’t the first call from that address. Two neighbors reported hearing a child crying from the basement last winter. Nothing stuck.”