Chapter 2: Behind Closed Doors

I watched him shuffle to the kitchen, shoulders slumped. It wasn’t servile, just the posture of someone who’d spent too long apologizing for things he couldn’t fix.

"You don’t have to fuss. I’m Mariah Lane, intern reporter at the Tribune. I’d like to talk to you and your daughter."

He looked pleased, straightening up a little.

"Name’s Dennis Carter. My daughter’s in the other room. I’ll bring you to her."

He led me down a cramped hallway to a tiny bedroom that barely fit a single bed.

The hallway was so narrow my shoulder brushed the peeling paint. I thought, Hope I don’t get splinters. The door creaked open, and I caught a glimpse of faded wallpaper—cartoon characters that might have been cheerful once.

A girl who looked just over ten lay on the bed. Her face was pale and thin, eyes sunken and too big for her face.

But then I saw her neck—black and purple bruises, scratch marks. My stomach twisted.

I’d seen sick kids before, but those bruises… they didn’t fit the story I’d been told. Something was off, way off.

Was her illness really this severe? I couldn’t help but let out a quiet breath, trying to steady myself.

On the livestream, she looked frail but okay. In person, she looked... close to death.

The girl in front of me had an air of death about her, like she was already halfway gone.

She opened her eyes as I entered, then closed them again.

Her gaze was sharp, older than her years. For a second, I felt like she was sizing me up as much as I was her.

"How’s your daughter doing lately? Any improvement?"

Honestly, the girl looked terrible—not like someone getting proper treatment.

But according to what was said online, Dennis Carter and his daughter had received nearly a hundred grand in donations. Their lives shouldn’t look this desperate.

I watched Dennis closely as he answered, looking for any sign of guilt or defensiveness. He just looked tired. Or maybe something worse.

"Sigh, it’s my fault for being useless. If I had any ability, my daughter wouldn’t have to suffer like this… Her illness is so hard to treat. No matter how much money you throw at it, it can only keep her alive."

Dennis spoke while wiping away tears. There was something almost rehearsed about it.

He was sharp—he knew why I was really there. Before I could even ask, he started in on the money, trying to get ahead of my questions.

Classic move. Get ahead of the story, control the narrative.

I didn’t say anything, just pulled up a chair and sat beside the girl.

I caught a sharp, metallic smell. Menstruation? But she was just a kid…

I needed answers, so I used the excuse of being thirsty to send Dennis out for water. I planned to ask the girl myself.

I glanced at the door as Dennis left, then leaned in, lowering my voice. My heart thudded in my chest.

"Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?"

The girl opened her eyes and frowned, lips trembling. For a second, I thought she was about to break down completely. But then she glanced at the door, nerves written all over her face.

"It’s okay, I’m here to help. If something’s wrong, you can tell me."

She was about to speak when Dennis came back with the water. She snapped her eyes shut and pretended to sleep. The tension in the room was a living thing.

"Ms. Lane, here’s some water."

Dennis bent over, smiling as he handed me the glass.

I thanked him, scanning the room. Like the living room, medicine bottles were everywhere.

There was only one bed for the girl, and the sheets and quilt were stained yellow, looking like they hadn’t seen a washing machine in months.

I caught the flicker of shame in Dennis’s eyes as he saw me notice. He rubbed his hands on his jeans, shifting his weight.