Davies’s confession had solidified my resolve. Bellamy was not just neglectful; he was abusive, and he was using his power to cover it up. The hidden adoption, the violent incident—it was a pattern of calculated control and deception.
Now, with Davies on board, even reluctantly, I felt a surge of hope. We needed hard proof. Something irrefutable that even Bellamy couldn’t dismiss as my “paranoia” or Davies’s “misinterpretation.”
“Think, David,” I said later that evening, back at my small apartment, a map of Harmony Creek spread across my tiny kitchen table. “Is there anything, any kind of official record, that would have come through Harmony Creek regarding Bethany’s death? Or the children’s welfare? Something that the Chief would have had reason to intercept or bury?”
Davies rubbed his temples, thinking hard. “Bethany’s death was ruled an accident. Car crash on the highway outside of town. No local investigation. But the kids… when a parent dies and there are minor children, especially with special needs, the state usually gets involved, doesn’t it? Just to make sure they’re placed properly.”
“Exactly,” I affirmed. “Child welfare. State-level assessment. If Bellamy adopted them, there would have been a process. And if Radley’s condition was already known, a state agency would have evaluated the Chief’s suitability as a guardian, and recommended care.”
“But I never heard anything like that,” Davies mused. “Just that the Chief took them in. Everyone thought it was noble.”
“That’s because he made sure no one heard anything,” I said, a chilling certainty settling over me. “He wouldn’t want anyone scrutinizing his household, especially with Radley’s condition. My guess is, if there was such a report, he buried it.”
The question was where. Not in plain sight at the police station. Not in the standard town hall records, as I’d already checked those for the adoption.
“What about old storage?” Davies suggested, a flicker of an idea in his eyes. “The town hall has that annex, remember? Behind the old council chambers. They used it for years for inactive files, stuff they didn’t want to shred but didn’t need daily access to. Before they went digital, mostly.”
My eyes lit up. “A ‘storage room.’ Dusty, forgotten. Perfect place to hide something that might resurface someday if someone wasn’t looking closely.”
Getting into the storage room proved to be easier than expected, partly because of Davies’s inside knowledge. He knew the building’s maintenance schedule, the unobserved entry points, and the quirks of its aging locks. We went in late at night, under the guise of an “emergency building inspection” for a faulty fire alarm, a plausible excuse Davies had concocted.
The room was exactly as he described: a cavernous space, smelling of mildew and forgotten things. Stacks of yellowed documents, old office furniture under drop cloths, cobwebs hanging like morbid decorations. Light from our flashlights cut through the gloom, illuminating decades of Harmony Creek’s bureaucratic past.
“Where would you even start?” Davies whispered, his voice echoing in the quiet.
“Think like Bellamy,” I instructed, my flashlight beam sweeping across the towering shelves. “He wouldn’t want it easily found, but he’d want to know where it was. Something connected to his sister, maybe. Her name.”
We started on the shelves marked “Deceased Estates” and “Special Cases,” methodically pulling down boxes. Each box was a treasure trove of mundane history: old zoning permits, forgotten tax liens, the entire paper trail of Harmony Creek for generations.
My hands were soon gritty with dust, my uniform once again becoming a canvas for the grime of forgotten secrets. My eyes scanned every label, every file. We worked in silence, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
Then, Davies made a sound, a short intake of breath. He was holding a small, unmarked box, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It looked out of place among the neatly labeled containers.
“Found it,” he muttered, his flashlight beam fixed on a faded, handwritten label on the side. “Bellamy. Personal.”
Personal. In the town archives? That was odd.
We opened it carefully. Inside, among a few old family photographs and some correspondence related to Bethany Bellamy’s estate, was a manila folder. It was thick, heavier than the other papers. And it was sealed.
A state seal was prominently displayed on the flap. “Confidential – State Child Welfare Assessment,” the bold red stamp read. Below it, in precise black ink: “Re: Radley Michael Bellamy, Lily Adeline Bellamy.”
My heart hammered in my chest. This was it.
My fingers trembled as I broke the brittle seal, the paper crackling under my touch. The report was dated four and a half years ago, just a few months after Bethany Bellamy’s death and before the finalization of the adoption.
I began to read, Davies leaning over my shoulder, our flashlights illuminating the damning words.
The report detailed multiple visits by state social workers to the Bellamy household after Bethany’s death. It described Radley’s condition in stark, clinical terms, noting his severe developmental disabilities, non-verbal communication, and need for constant specialized care.
But it didn’t stop there.
It outlined concerns about the suitability of Elias Bellamy as a guardian. It documented “unresponsive and at times hostile behavior” from Bellamy during their assessments. It noted the inadequate conditions in the home for a child with Radley’s needs: lack of specialized equipment, an isolated environment, and “clear signs of emotional neglect” for both Radley and Lily.
The report concluded with a firm, unambiguous recommendation: “Immediate placement of Radley Michael Bellamy in a specialized residential care facility equipped to handle his complex needs.” It further stated that “Elias Bellamy is deemed an unsuitable primary guardian for Radley Michael Bellamy due to demonstrated lack of empathy, insufficient resources, and an unwillingness to engage with professional recommendations.”
My blood ran cold. Unsuitable guardian. Severe neglect. Immediate placement.
This wasn’t just a recommendation. It was an indictment. Bellamy wasn’t just hiding their lineage; he was actively defying a state order, covering up official findings that would have stripped him of guardianship.
“He ignored it,” Davies breathed, his voice filled with shock. “He just… buried it. Acted like it never happened.”
“And no one followed up,” I added, my mind reeling. “Because he’s the Chief. He has influence. He made sure this never saw the light of day.”
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. This wasn’t just about the children. This was about Bellamy’s power, his iron grip on this town, and his willingness to abuse it to protect his image and keep his secrets buried. He had silenced the state. He had kept Radley in that dark room, neglected, for years, directly against professional advice.
And he’d gaslighted me, tried to make me believe I was crazy, while this report sat hidden, damning him. The betrayal was staggering. We had our proof. But I knew this was only one piece of a much larger, darker puzzle.
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