Part 6: The Medical Report
“This is a third-degree thermal injury,” Dr. Henderson said quietly, carefully cleaning the wound with sterile antiseptic while Ava gripped my fingers so hard my knuckles turned white. “The skin tissue is deeply compromised. We’re going to need specialized burn cream, heavy gauze wrapping, and a full report filed with Child Protective Services immediately. I am legally required to report this, Claire, but even if I weren't, I’d do it myself.”
“Do it,” Marcus said, standing beside the examination table with his arms crossed. “File every report you have. We want a paper trail a mile wide.”
Dr. Henderson nodded solemnly. He finished dressing Ava’s hand, prescribing a mild pain reliever and a specialized antibiotic ointment to prevent infection. By the time we left the clinic, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of deep orange and purple. Ava was resting quietly in the back seat, lulled to sleep by the hum of the truck.
“Where are we going?” I asked as Marcus turned onto the highway leading toward my apartment complex instead of the road back to my house.
“You and Ava are staying with me tonight,” Marcus said, glancing over at me. “Or at least until I can ensure your place is secure. Given how your family operates, I wouldn't put it past your father to show up at your doorstep trying to intimidate you into dropping the charges.”
“He wouldn't dare,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction. My father had just burned his own granddaughter with barbecue tongs; logic no longer applied to him.
“He would,” Marcus replied grimly. “Grant Holloway has spent forty years believing he is untouchable because he’s got money, local connections, and a loud voice. Well, times have changed. He’s about to find out what happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force.”
When we arrived at my apartment, Marcus carried Ava upstairs and tucked her safely into her bed. She woke up briefly, drank a glass of water, and drifted right back to sleep, exhausted from the trauma of the afternoon.
Marcus and I sat at my small kitchen table in the dim light. The silence between us was heavy, filled with the unspoken weight of our past history together. We had divorced two years ago—not because we stopped caring about each other, but because the stresses of our demanding jobs and my family’s constant, toxic interference had eroded the foundation of our marriage. Yet, sitting here tonight, all of that petty history felt completely irrelevant. We were a united front, bound by our shared love for our daughter.
“The police called while we were at the clinic,” Marcus said quietly, breaking the silence. “Officer Vance. He took my statement and Dr. Henderson’s preliminary report. He’s going to your parents' house tonight to issue an arrest warrant for Grant.”
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My breath hitched. “An arrest warrant? For my father?”
“Assault in the second degree, child endangerment, and aggravated battery with a deadly weapon—those tongs count under the statute given the temperature,” Marcus listed calmly. “Your father is going to jail, Claire. There’s no talking his way out of this one.”
