How deep was Brad into this world? What had he gotten himself into? Over the next few weeks, I documented everything—times, locations, people, all neatly tucked away in a folder that grew heavier by the day.
It was during this time that Ivy’s Saturday visits became my lifeline. She knew something was wrong, her eyes searching mine as if to ask if I’d found the answers she silently sought. One Saturday, as we sat on our usual bench, I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Ivy,” I said, choosing my words with care, “I’ve been doing what you asked. I’m trying to help. Do you feel safe at home?”
Her gaze met mine, a flicker of relief mingling with fear.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, her voice small. “He gets mad. Real mad.
Especially when people come over.”
Her admission was enough to ignite my resolve. I couldn’t wait any longer. The next Monday, I took my folder to the local authorities, trembling with hope and trepidation.
The detective listened patiently, his eyes narrowing as he skimmed through the evidence. “We’ll look into this,” he assured me, his voice carrying a weight of seriousness that bolstered my fragile hope. For the next few days, I was a bundle of nerves, each phone call or knock at the door setting my heart pounding anew.
Then, the call came. Brad had been arrested. The charges were severe—drug trafficking, endangerment, a litany of wrongs that made my stomach churn.
Ivy came to live with me, the house that once felt like a mausoleum now filled with her laughter. Though the road ahead would undoubtedly be fraught with challenges, I held onto the promise I’d made to Willow—to keep Ivy safe, come what may.
