Chapter 3: No Justice, Only Grief

After Lily’s tragedy made the rounds, neighbors came to me, demanding Caleb’s address, voices sharp with anger. “We’ll teach that brat a lesson—he can’t just get away with this!” Mrs. O’Brien hissed. But the police warned me: “You dox that family, and you’ll be the one with a summons, not them.”

Days later, Natalie showed up at my shop, clutching a wad of tissues, hands shaking so hard she dropped her keys. “They’re saying there’s nothing more they can do,” she choked out, mascara streaking her cheeks. Caleb was under twelve—untouchable by the law. My disbelief was total. Justice seemed like a TV fantasy now, not something for our world.

Natalie’s voice broke mid-sentence. “Even if I sue, the DA won’t take the case. All I can do is file a civil suit… but who can give me justice for my daughter?” She sobbed so hard her nose bled, staining the tissues pink. My wife wrapped her in a side hug, offering what little comfort she could.

What made it worse: Caleb’s parents never apologized. They dodged her calls, even when the police tried to mediate. “They won’t even come out on the porch when we stop by,” one officer told me. “It’s like they hope it’ll just blow over.”

My wife brought Natalie soup, pressing a mug into her trembling hands. “We’re all moms. Sometimes there’s nothing anyone can do. Just… try to remember Lily with love.”

Natalie slumped on our couch, shoulders shaking. “I hear my child crying every night. My heart feels like it’s been stabbed a dozen times…”

We gently encouraged her: “Let’s bring Lily home. One step at a time.”

The memorial was held in Natalie’s bakery. The scent of yeast and lilies mingled as neighbors dropped off casseroles and condolence cards. Someone quietly stacked plastic cups, a kid chased a balloon, and an old man muttered a prayer over his coffee. A neighbor mowed the lawn in silence; someone tied a pink ribbon around a tree for Lily.

During the reception, Mr. Sanders blamed Natalie: “Should’ve watched her better.” He was instantly shouted down. “Let’s see you last a day with a toddler and still run a business, huh?” Mrs. Kim snapped. “Try taking a toddler to the bathroom every hour!”

Big Mike scowled. “If this happened to me, I’d tear that little monster apart, jail or not. Natalie deserves better.”

We stayed to help—stacking chairs, wiping tables, handing out cookies. My daughter played quietly at the door, tracing circles on the linoleum, unusually subdued.

When I called her over, she grinned and showed me chocolate stuck to her teeth—a treat we never let her have. “Did Aunt Natalie give that to you?” I asked.

She shook her head. “The big brother gave it to me.”

A bolt of panic shot through me. “Which big brother?”

“The one who took Lily. He said Lily didn’t finish these chocolates, so he gave them to me.”

My heart pounded. I felt the sudden urge to check her for symptoms, already fumbling for my phone, ready to Google poison control.