But Hector, sitting across from him, slowly put down his beer.
Because everyone in the Iron Wolves knew what happened when Grave Maddox became interested in a problem.
He did not forget it.
And he did not walk away.
“Why haven't you been allowed to see her?” Vincent asked.
Walter looked at the photograph.
For a moment, the old man seemed unable to remember that anyone else was sitting at the table. His thumb moved across the frame's chipped edge, tracing a small scratch in the silver where Rosie had once dropped it while trying to climb onto his lap.
“She was placed with a foster family after Emily died,” he said. “We understood that. We didn't like it, but we understood. The social worker told us there would be an assessment, that they needed to make sure we could provide a suitable home.”
“Did they assess you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Walter hesitated.
“They said our income was too low. Our apartment wasn't suitable for a child. Evelyn's arthritis might prevent her from keeping up with Rosie. They said I was too old to take on the responsibility.”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“How old are you?”
“Seventy-four.”
“And you're how old?” he asked Evelyn.
“Seventy-one.”
Vincent considered them for a moment.
“My mother was sixty-eight when she helped raise my nephew.”
“That's kind of you to say,” Evelyn replied. “But we know we're not young anymore.”
“Being old isn't the same as being useless.”
Walter looked at him.
Something passed through the old man's expression, so fleeting that Vincent almost missed it. It was not gratitude. Not yet.
It was recognition.
The recognition of someone who had spent months hearing the same objections repeated until they had begun to sound like facts.
“We didn't argue with the assessment,” Walter said. “We told them we'd find somewhere better. I took extra shifts at the maintenance shop. Evelyn started making alterations for people in the building. We were going to move into a smaller house outside town, somewhere with a little yard.”
“What happened?”
“The landlord sold the building. We were given thirty days to leave.”
“Then?”
“Then Emily's medical bills caught up with us.”
Walter said it simply, without asking for sympathy.
He explained that he and Evelyn had spent their savings paying what they could. Emily had rented a small apartment, but the unpaid bills had remained after her death. Walter had signed documents he barely understood, believing that keeping the payments current would protect what little security remained for Rosie.
Instead, he and Evelyn had fallen behind on their own rent.
By the time they found another place, their credit was damaged, their savings were gone, and the money Walter earned repairing machinery was barely enough to cover food and medication.
The temporary foster placement had become a longer arrangement.
Then the social worker changed.
Then the telephone calls stopped being returned.
Then, six weeks earlier, a letter arrived.
Walter reached into the canvas bag and retrieved a folded envelope.
“I've carried this everywhere,” he said.
He handed it to Vincent.
The letter was official, printed on white paper beneath the heading of a county child and family services department. It stated that contact between the grandparents and Rosie would be suspended pending further review.
The reason given was the child's need for stability during a period of adjustment.
There was no detailed explanation.
No clear timetable.
No name of a person who could explain what the family was supposed to do next.
Vincent read it twice.
“Who signed this?”
“Her caseworker. A woman named Melissa Grant.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Several times.”
“What did she say?”
Walter looked down at his hands.
“She said we needed to stop making things difficult for Rosie.”
Vincent placed the letter on the table.
“How were you making things difficult?”
“We asked when we could see her.”
The words were barely audible.
Evelyn pressed a hand to her mouth.
“We never shouted at anyone,” she said. “We never threatened anyone. We only wanted to know whether our granddaughter was happy. Whether she was eating properly. Whether she still slept with the little rabbit her mother bought her.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Walter reached for her hand.
“They told us Rosie was adjusting,” he said. “They said she was doing well with her foster family. Then they said our visits were upsetting her.”
“Did you see her upset?”
“No.”
“Did anyone explain what she was upset about?”
“No.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Did you hire a lawyer?”
Walter almost smiled.
“With what money?”
That answer stayed between them.
Across the diner, Big Carl had stopped pretending not to listen. Peso stared into his plate. Hector's expression had become unreadable.
Vincent looked at the photograph again.
“Does Rosie have any other family?”
“Emily's father left when she was a baby,” Evelyn said. “We never heard from him again. Emily didn't have brothers or sisters. There are a few cousins, but they're scattered across the country. We haven't been able to reach most of them.”
“Did Emily have any friends who could help?”
“She had a neighbor named Claire,” Walter replied. “A young woman who lived downstairs. She helped Emily when the treatments started. But she moved away before Emily died.”
“Do you have her number?”
“No. Emily kept everything on her phone. After the funeral, the hospital gave us her personal belongings, but the phone wouldn't turn on. We were told it had been damaged.”
Vincent looked at Hector.
“Get my phone.”
Hector reached into his vest and handed it over.
Vincent dialed a number from memory.