Saturday story time was supposed to be the calmest part of my week.

By Monday morning, the local news vans had parked outside the Maple Ridge Public Library. Reporters from regional channels shoved microphones toward anyone walking up the steps, eager for a scoop on the "House of Horrors" hidden right in their quiet community.

Jackie met me at the employee entrance, holding a tray of steaming coffee and looking pale.

"The superintendent called twice," Jackie said as we slipped past the glass doors before unlocking them for the public. "And half the town council is demanding to know how we spotted it. They're calling you a hero on the morning talk shows, Em."

"I'm not a hero, Jackie," I said, dropping my keys onto my desk. "I was just doing story time. It was Ava who saved herself and Millie by being brave enough to talk about it."

The morning passed in a blur of police interviews, visits from state child welfare officials, and reporters trying to sneak past the front desk disguised as patrons looking for large-print biographies. I answered every question truthfully, recounting Ava's small voice on the rug, the hollow look in Millie's eyes, and the crackers broken into tiny, deliberate pieces.

Around noon, a quiet knock came at my office door.

Detective Murdoch stepped inside, looking exhausted but resolute. He held a sealed cardboard box labeled Whitaker Residence - Item 44.

"Thought you might want to see this before we log it into evidence," Murdoch said, setting the box down on my corner table.

Inside was a collection of handmade items taken from Robert Whitaker's study: a white dry-erase whiteboard titled The Household Performance Metrics, filled with columns of children's names, daily caloric limits, and demerit points. Next to it was a small stack of children's drawings.

I reached down and picked up a crayon drawing done on cheap construction paper. It showed a little girl standing next to a giant clock, with a caption written in awkward, trembling eight-year-old handwriting: If I stay quiet, the monsters stay asleep.

"Robert Whitaker’s trial is going to be high-profile," Murdoch said quietly. "His defense team is going to try to paint him as a strict disciplinarian whose methods were misinterpreted by an overzealous librarian and hysterical foster children."

"Not while I have breath in my body," I said, looking up at Murdoch. "I kept every text message, every book checkout record, and I memorized every word Ava said on that rug. If that man thinks he's walking away, he doesn't know librarians."

Murdoch smiled—a genuine, tired smile that reached his eyes. "That’s what I was hoping you’d say. By the way, the hospital called. Ava woke up about an hour ago. Do you know what the first thing she asked for was?"