The social worker arrived forty minutes later.
Mid-forties.
Kind face.
Tired eyes.
She introduced herself to the little girl before anyone else.
Good sign.
Then she spoke privately with the Biker Leader, Nurse Biker, and police officer.
“We’ve contacted the mother’s employer.”
The Biker Leader’s stomach tightened.
“And?”
“She clocked in Monday night.”
Everyone waited.
“She never clocked out.”
Silence.
The Vice President frowned.
“What does that mean?”
The social worker looked toward the police officer.
The officer answered.
“She left the laundry facility around eleven-forty p.m.”
“Camera?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
That changed everything.
“Who?”
“A man.”
The little girl could not hear them from across the hall.
The officer lowered her voice.
“We’re working on identification.”
The Biker Leader looked toward the child.
“Abduction?”
“Unknown.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Unknown.”
“Coworker?”
“Possibly.”
The social worker interrupted.
“We need to separate the missing-person investigation from the immediate child-safety plan.”
Nobody liked that sentence.
It was correct.
The little boy would likely remain overnight.
The girl could not legally be released to three motorcycle-club members she had met hours earlier.
No known family had yet been located.
Emergency placement might be necessary.
The Biker Leader looked toward the little girl.
“She’s terrified they’ll split them.”
The social worker nodded.
“I heard.”
“Can they stay together?”
“I’m trying.”
“Trying is not the same.”
“No.”
She looked at him.
“But it’s honest.”
The Biker Leader respected her slightly more.
“What do you need?”
“Names.”
“We don’t have any.”
“Relatives. Teachers. Neighbors. Family friends.”
The girl might know.
The social worker sat with her.
Questions came slowly.
Grandmother?
Dead.
Grandfather?
Never met.
Father?
The child’s expression changed.
“Gone.”
“Do you know his name?”
She did.
The social worker wrote it down.
Aunt?
“One.”
“Where?”
The girl knew the city but not the address.
Different state.
Phone number?
No.
The Biker Leader watched.
Every answer narrowed options.
The social worker finally asked, “Is there anyone your mom trusts?”
The girl thought.
Then said, “Miss Rosa.”
“Who’s Miss Rosa?”
“Downstairs.”
Neighbor.
The police officer called another unit.
Within an hour, they found the downstairs neighbor.
She arrived at the hospital furious and crying.
A short woman in her sixties wearing house slippers because she had left too quickly.
The little girl ran to her.
“Miss Rosa!”
The woman hugged her so tightly the Nurse Biker almost intervened.
Then saw the girl relax.
First time all day.