Chapter 6 - The Numbers Hidden Beneath Brookside’s Clean Reputation

Brookside had built its reputation on numbers.

Low restraint rates.

High school attendance.

Few serious incidents.

Stable placements.

Those numbers appeared in grant applications, state contract renewals, donor brochures, and a framed newspaper article in Dr. Venn’s office calling Brookside a model of trauma-informed residential care.

Jonah’s flash drive tore a hole through all of it.

The hidden spreadsheets listed restraints that never appeared in state reports. Some lasted twenty minutes. One lasted forty-three. Several involved kids under thirteen. Hasker’s name appeared repeatedly, but so did other staff members. Beside certain incidents were notes such as internal only, behavior plan, and do not upload.

Lena told us the data still needed authentication.

Jonah said, “That means they think I made it up.”

“No,” I said. “It means adults use longer words when they’re scared.”

Brick snorted into his coffee.

Jonah stayed with an emergency foster family in Bozeman while his case was reopened. He wanted to stay with June and me, but June’s license only allowed one therapeutic placement at a time without special approval.

He pretended not to care.

I knew better.

So did June.

She called him every night.

The threatening texts stopped after Lorraine Pike was arrested in Idaho on charges unrelated to the abuse investigation: fleeing an active preservation order and attempting to destroy records. Police found shredded paper in the back of her SUV and a laptop with its hard drive removed.

The photo of June’s house had been taken on her phone.

When Lena told me, relief came first.

Then anger.

“She wanted me scared.”

“Yes,” Lena said.

“It worked.”

“That doesn’t mean she won.”

I was getting tired of adults saying things that sounded wise but did not change what fear felt like at three in the morning.

School became the next problem.

I had not attended since August.

June enrolled me in a small alternative program while the district assessed credits. On my first day, everyone knew who I was.

Not because the news showed my face clearly.

Because teenagers are better detectives than governments.

A boy in chemistry whispered, “That’s the biker kid.”

A girl asked if I had really lived in an alley.

Someone else wanted to know whether Brick carried a gun.

By lunch I locked myself in a bathroom stall.

I stayed there until a teacher named Mr. Bell knocked.

“You in trouble?” he asked.

“No.”

“Need help?”

“No.”

“Want me to leave?”

I thought about it.

“Yes.”

“All right.”

His footsteps went away.

Five minutes later, a paper bag slid beneath the stall door.

Peanut-butter sandwich. Apple. Chips.

No note.

I ate it.

That afternoon, Mara brought me a copy of my state file.

It was thicker than a dictionary.

Every place I had slept since my father died was reduced to forms, dates, diagnoses, risk levels, and abbreviations.

I found my father’s name near the beginning.

Daniel Turner.

Deceased.

Occupation: welder.

I stared at the page because something about it felt familiar beyond the obvious.

Brick, sitting across the room, saw the name.

His coffee stopped halfway to his mouth.

“What?” I asked.

He set the cup down.

“Your dad was Daniel Turner?”

“You knew that.”

“No. I knew Turner. Common name.”

His face had gone pale under his beard.

June looked over his shoulder.

“Brick?”

He took the file carefully.

“What was his middle name?”

“James.”

Brick closed his eyes.

June whispered, “Oh, God.”

I stood so fast the chair tipped.

“What?”

Brick reached into his wallet. Behind his license, club card, and folded twenty-dollar bill was an old photograph worn white at the corners.

Five younger men stood beside motorcycles outside a welding shop.

One was Brick without gray in his beard.

One was my father.

I knew him even though he was twenty years younger than when I last saw him.

Same crooked smile.

Same ears.

Same scar over the left eyebrow.

The room tilted.

“You knew him.”

Brick nodded.

“How?”

“He worked with me. Rode with us for a while. Not patched in. Just… around.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know you were his kid.”

“You knew my last name.”

“Eli, I hadn’t seen Danny in sixteen years. Turner isn’t exactly rare.”

I looked at June.

She looked sick.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Brick’s silence answered first.

Then June said, “After your father died, Brick tried to find out what happened to you.”

My throat closed.

“What do you mean tried?”

Brick stared at the photograph.

“I heard Danny had died. I called the county. They wouldn’t release information because I wasn’t family. I figured your mother had you.”

“She left.”

“I know that now.”

I took the photograph from him.

For ninety-seven days I had believed the door to The Foundry was random.

Maybe it was.

But the man whose dog I saved had once known my father.

And suddenly the strangest accident of my life felt like something else entirely.

Not fate.

May you like

[COMPLETED] “GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY DRESS! YOU’RE NOTHING BUT AN OLD SEAM...

[COMPLETED] At the Mafia Boss's Engagement Party, I Served His Hungry So...

[COMPLETED] The Mafia Boss’s Fiancée Tried to Dismiss His Father’s Loyal...

Not magic.

Just a thread I had almost frozen before finding.