After years of learning at home, my 10-year-old son, who has Down syndrome, was finally given the chance to go to a regular school. He was happier than I’d seen him in years. But just five days after he started, I got a phone call from the principal that left me shaken.

“I didn’t know about the eggs,” he blurted. “Brayden never gave me any. He just said that so you’d be scared. I’m sorry, Milo. I should’ve said something.”

Milo looked at him for a long moment.

“You’re still my friend?”

“Duh,” Felix said, and Milo laughed for the first time in two days.

That evening, I called Officer Lim. She’d given me her card and told me to use it.

“Brayden Rowan,” I said. “Is he related to Celeste Rowan?”

There was a short pause on the line.

“He’s her son,” Officer Lim said carefully. “Mrs. Carver, I spoke with Brayden on Friday afternoon, with his mother present. He denied everything. He said Milo must be confused.”

“Milo isn’t confused.”

“I don’t think he is either,” she said quietly. “But I need more than a ten-year-old’s word against an eleven-year-old’s. Especially with this family. If you find anything — anything — call me.”