Reliable.
Methodical.
The man who would not sign a certificate just because someone smiled at him and offered sweet tea.
He liked that reputation.
It kept him honest.
It kept other people nervous enough to tell partial truths.
The Mercer farmhouse sat twelve miles outside town, down a muddy road bordered by winter grass and split-rail fencing.
It was the kind of property magazines loved.
White farmhouse.
Red barn.
Wraparound porch.
A place staged to look like healing itself had moved into the countryside and started baking pies.
Daphne Mercer had built a public life around that image.
Private foster care advocate.
Speaker at charity breakfasts.
Host of donor dinners for “medically fragile little ones.”
The county paper adored her.
Church women loved her.
The family court judges praised her for taking the hardest children, the ones with complicated files and delicate needs.
Elias had inspected the house before.
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