“The milk was bad,” he said. Because Brewer wasn’t home to buy more.

Because he’s dead.

The cop’s lips thinned. “Okay. Miss Shafer and I will go to your house.” She pointed to the social worker. “While we’re gone, you’ll stay here with Dr. Dani.”

Dr. Dani was smiling kindly. “I’ll stitch you up while they’re gone. Any questions before they leave?”

Just one. “Yeah. Who is our emergency foster placement?” Because Joshua’s safety was the most important thing. Just like always.

Dr. Dani pointed to herself. “Me. Is that okay?”

“You?” the interpreter signed, widening her eyes to show surprise, her head tilted toward Coach Diesel to show Michael who had spoken.

Dr. Dani’s smile faltered, just a little, her eyes growing cool as her gaze shifted over Michael’s shoulder to where Coach Diesel sat. “Yes, Coach. I’m a licensed provider of emergency foster care. I’m normally called in when deaf kids are involved.” She returned her gaze to Michael, her eyes warming. “Okay?”

Michael nodded, relieved. He knew she wouldn’t try to hurt either of them. Maybe I can get some sleep. Because he’d stayed up all night, every night, watching over Joshua since the big bald man had come into his brother’s room.

Her eyes went cool again. “I hope that’s okay with you, too, Coach.”

Ouch. Michael didn’t need to hear to know that was sarcasm.

“Of course,” the interpreter signed, ducking her head a little to indicate shame. Coach Diesel had been schooled. “Officer Cullen,” she continued on Diesel’s behalf, again tilting her head toward the coach. “I thought Scarlett was going to call Adam.”

Michael knew Scarlett was the detective who’d taken the old man to the ER. Who is Adam? But he didn’t ask. He just kept his eyes on the interpreter, because the doctor’s hands were busy taking care of him and the interpreter was speaking for her.

“I spoke to him,” Dr. Dani said. “He got called to a scene, so Officer Cullen came instead.” She pulled her phone from her pocket, brushed Michael’s hair aside, and took some photos of the cut on his head.

“For our records and for the police report,” she told him, angling the phone so that Michael could see the screen, too.

Wow. Michael grimaced. That was a bad cut.

The interpreter was waving her hand to get his attention. The cop was talking again, handing him a white card. “My numbers,” she said. “You have a phone?”

He nodded warily. If she wanted to take his phone, he’d fight her.

“Use it to text me,” she said, “if you have any concerns or if you feel unsafe. Text 911 first if it’s an emergency.”