I outlined the situation. Greg listened without interrupting, then sighed heavily.
“Here’s the reality. Connor’s fifteen, which means his testimony alone might not carry full weight without parental support. His mother is denying there’s a problem, which complicates everything. You’ve got good medical documentation from the hospital, but one incident that can be explained as an accident isn’t enough for intervention.”
“So what can I do?”
“Build the case properly. Document everything. If Derek makes any threats or attempts contact that makes Connor uncomfortable, record it if possible. Keep Connor safe while gathering evidence. And most importantly, try to get through to your sister. If Karen acknowledges what’s happening, everything else becomes easier.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then you might have to make some hard decisions about how far you’re willing to push this.”
The next few days settled into a routine. Connor stayed with me, going to school from my house, coming back each afternoon. I drove him, picked him up, made sure he was keeping up with his schoolwork and following the doctor’s instructions for his wrist. Karen called twice a day, and I kept the conversations light, reassuring her that Connor was healing well, that we were having good uncle-nephew time. She seemed relieved, actually, that she didn’t have to manage Derek’s moods while caring for an injured teenager.
Derek didn’t call at all. That worried me more than constant contact would have.
On Thursday afternoon, I got a call from Dr. Newwin.
“Mr. Morrison, I wanted to let you know about something. I was discussing Connor’s case with a colleague, and she mentioned she’d treated another teenager about a year ago with a similar presentation—wrist injury, bruising, story that didn’t match the injury pattern.”
My pulse quickened. “Did this patient happen to mention who was present when the injury occurred?”
“The stepfather brought her in. Very concerned, very involved in her care. Made sure to mention multiple times that the girl was accident-prone, that she’d had other minor injuries.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I can’t give you that directly. Patient confidentiality.” A pause. “But if you were to check with the sports medicine clinic at Rocky View, specifically their adolescent injury program from last November, you might find something useful.”
I understood what she was carefully not saying. “Thank you, Dr. Newwin.”
“Mr. Morrison, whatever you’re building, be thorough. If this man has hurt multiple kids, that needs to come out. But you need solid evidence.”
Finding records at a different hospital was more difficult, but I still had contacts from my firefighting years. A favor called in from a former colleague who now worked in hospital administration got me a name: Sophie Maro, fourteen at the time of her injury, registered with an address in the Beltline area. Her mother, Isabelle Maro, had dated Derek Ashton two and a half years ago, before he met Karen. The relationship had lasted about seven months.
I sent another careful message, this time through Isabelle’s work email at a downtown law firm.
Ms. Maro, I apologize for the intrusive contact. My name is Bill Morrison, retired fire captain. I’m writing regarding Derek Ashton, who I believe you dated briefly. He’s now married to my sister, and I’m concerned about my nephew’s safety. A doctor mentioned your daughter had a similar injury to what my nephew just experienced. If you’re willing to talk, I would appreciate hearing about your experience. This is about protecting kids.
Isabelle called me that evening.
“I knew something was wrong,” she said without preamble. “I knew it that night Sophie got hurt. But she wouldn’t tell me what really happened, and Derek was so convincing with his story about her falling during soccer practice.”
“And Sophie never told you the truth?”
“Not until months later, after I’d already ended things with him. Then she finally admitted that Derek had grabbed her and pushed her into a wall during an argument. She was terrified of him, but she was also terrified of what he’d do if she told anyone.”
“How did Derek react when you broke up with him?”
“Like flipping a switch. Suddenly I was ungrateful. I was unstable. I was going to regret choosing my difficult daughter over a good man who could have provided for us.” Isabelle’s voice strengthened. “I didn’t regret it. Best decision I ever made.”
“Would Sophie be willing to talk or give a statement to authorities?”
A long pause. “She’s sixteen now. Doing better. Therapy helped. But she’s still frightened of him. Let me talk to her. See how she feels.”
By Friday—six days after Connor’s injury—I had the outline of something substantial. Medical records from two teenagers with similar injuries, both connected to Derek Ashton. Testimony from his ex-wife about controlling and abusive behavior. Documentation of escalating aggression toward Connor.
What I needed now was to try again with Karen.
I invited my sister to meet me at a coffee shop in Kensington, neutral territory. She arrived looking tired, dark circles under her eyes that hadn’t been there three years ago.
“How’s Connor?” she asked immediately. “He’s been so withdrawn when I call. I’m worried.”
“He’s healing. The wrist is improving.” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “Karen, I need to talk to you about something difficult.”
Her expression closed off immediately, like shutters slamming over windows. “If this is about Derek, Bill, I don’t want to hear it. I know you’ve never really warmed up to him.”
“That’s not true. I barely know him. But I’m concerned about some things.”
“Connor said something, didn’t he? He’s been so hostile to Derek lately.” Karen’s voice was tight, defensive. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“Karen.” I kept my voice gentle but firm. “Connor didn’t fall off his bike. Derek grabbed him and threw him against a wall. He broke Connor’s wrist by twisting it.”
My sister’s face went white, then flushed with anger. “That’s ridiculous. Connor told me himself it was an accident. Why would you say something like that?”
“Because Connor is terrified of Derek, and he doesn’t think you’ll believe him. Because the injury pattern doesn’t match a fall. Because I’ve spoken to other people who’ve been in Derek’s life, and there’s a pattern here you need to know about.”
“Other people. You’ve been investigating my husband.” Karen stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I can’t believe this. I thought you were helping Connor recover, but instead you’re trying to destroy my marriage.”
“I’m trying to protect your son.”
“No.” She grabbed her jacket, her hands trembling. “I’m taking Connor home today, and I don’t want you filling his head with paranoid accusations.”
She left before I could respond, walking out of the coffee shop with her head high and her hands shaking.
When I got home, Connor was in the living room, pale and tense. He looked up with panic in his eyes.
“Mom called. She’s coming to get me. She said you’ve been lying about Derek, that I need to tell her the truth about everything.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I’d talk to her when she got here.” Connor’s voice was small, terrified. “Uncle Bill, I can’t go back there. Not yet.”
And that’s when I realized we were out of time for careful documentation and building cases. We were at a crisis point.
I called Greg Patterson again. “I need options quickly. Karen is coming to take Connor home. He’s afraid to go. I have evidence of a pattern, but nothing conclusive enough for legal intervention.”
“Legally, your options are limited. She’s his mother. She has custody. If you refuse to let him go, you’re interfering with that custody.”
“Exactly. Rock and a hard place.”
Greg paused. “There is one option, but it’s nuclear. You file for emergency guardianship based on concerns for his safety. It triggers an immediate investigation, forces everything into the open. But it also declares war on your sister’s marriage.”
Karen arrived an hour later. Derek was with her. I hadn’t expected that, but I should have. Of course he’d want to be present to control how things played out.
“Connor,” Karen said as soon as she entered, her voice tight with emotion. “Get your things. We’re going home.”
Connor looked at me, then at his mother. “Mom, I need to tell you something. But I can’t say it with him here.”
“Derek has every right to be here. He’s my husband and your stepfather.” Karen’s voice was strained, brittle. “And apparently Uncle Bill has been spreading terrible accusations about him.”
“They’re not accusations.” Connor stood up, and despite his injured wrist and the fear in his eyes, he looked remarkably like his father in that moment—strong, determined. “Mom, Derek pushed me against the wall and broke my wrist. He’s been hurting me for months. And I’ve been too scared to tell you because I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Connor, that’s not—” Derek started, his voice full of hurt confusion.
“I’m not finished.” Connor cut him off, his voice gaining strength. “He grabs me. He threatens me. He tells me all the ways he could ruin my life if I cause problems. And last week, when I said I wanted to go on the ski trip, he twisted my arm and threw me into the wall.”
The room was silent. Karen looked between her son and her husband, and I could see her world crumbling behind her eyes.
“That is absolutely not true.” Derek’s voice was carefully calibrated—just the right amount of shock and hurt. “Karen, you know how Connor’s been. Moody, oppositional. I’ve tried so hard to connect with him, to be patient. But apparently he’d rather make up stories than accept that I care about him.”
“It’s not just Connor,” I said quietly. I pulled out my folder. “This is medical documentation from another teenager, about a year ago. Wrist injury, unexplained bruising. You were there that night too, Derek. With Isabelle Maro’s daughter, Sophie.”
I watched Derek’s expression flicker—just for a second, but I saw it. Fear. Recognition. Calculation.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And this is a statement from your ex-wife, Michelle, describing a pattern of controlling and aggressive behavior during your marriage. Particularly toward her son.” I placed each document on the coffee table. “And this is Dr. Newwin’s detailed analysis of Connor’s injuries, noting that they’re inconsistent with a fall.”
“Anyone can make allegations.” Derek’s voice had changed—harder now, the mask slipping. “This is a pathetic attempt to destroy my marriage because you’ve never accepted that Karen moved on from your dead brother-in-law.”
“No.” Karen’s voice was barely a whisper. “No, this is—” She turned to Derek. “Why didn’t you tell me you dated Isabelle Maro? Her daughter goes to Connor’s school. I’ve seen them at events.”
“It was years ago. It didn’t seem relevant.” Derek’s voice was smooth, but I could see tension in his shoulders, the careful control starting to crack.
“I want to talk to her. And to your ex-wife.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re going to listen to strangers over your own husband?” Derek’s mask was cracking now, the real man showing through. “After everything I’ve done for you? I gave you stability, security. I took on your son, even though he’s been nothing but hostile. And this is how you repay me?”
There it was—the real Derek Ashton, the one he’d kept hidden behind the charming smile and careful words.
Karen took a step back, instinctively, moving closer to Connor. “I think you should leave.”
“I’m not leaving my own wife.”
“I’m asking you to leave.” Karen’s voice trembled but held firm. “I need time to think.”
Derek looked at each of us in turn—Karen, Connor, me. His expression cycled through hurt, anger, calculation, and finally settled on cold fury.
“You’re making a mistake. A terrible mistake. And when you realize that, I might not be willing to forgive it.”
He left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
In the silence that followed, Karen sank onto the couch and started crying—deep, wrenching sobs that seemed to come from somewhere broken inside her. Connor sat beside her, awkward with his cast, but trying to offer comfort.
“I’m sorry,” she said over and over. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened. I should have seen what was happening.”
“Mom, it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. You’re my son. My job is to protect you, and I—” She looked up at me with devastated eyes. “Bill, I chose him over Connor. How do I come back from that?”
“By choosing Connor now,” I said gently. “By acknowledging the mistake and doing better. That’s all any of us can do.”
What followed was a long, painful process. Karen called Isabelle Maro and had a tearful conversation. She spoke with Michelle Reeves, who was remarkably kind given what Derek had put her family through. She sat with Connor and listened to months of incidents he’d been too afraid to share.
By evening, Karen was emotionally drained but clear-eyed. “I’m filing for divorce. And I want to pursue charges if that’s an option.”
I called Greg Patterson, who walked us through the process. With multiple victims willing to come forward, with medical documentation, with a pattern established across Derek’s relationships, we had something substantial.
It wasn’t simple. Derek fought the divorce viciously, trying to paint Karen as unstable and Connor as a troubled teen. But with Michelle and Isabelle both willing to provide statements, with Sophie finally feeling safe enough to describe what Derek had done to her, the facade crumbled.
The criminal case took months. Derek had good lawyers, but Dr. Newwin’s testimony about injury patterns, combined with statements from three teenagers, was devastating. In the end, Derek took a plea deal—assault charges, restraining orders, a criminal record that would follow him forever. It wasn’t the justice Connor had hoped for. Derek didn’t go to prison. But he lost his job, his reputation, his carefully constructed life.
More importantly, Connor was safe.
Fourteen months later, I sat with my nephew at a café near the University of Calgary campus. He’d just finished his first semester of a kinesiology program, already talking about eventually becoming a physical therapist.
“I got an email from Sophie,” he said. “She’s applying to universities now. Wants to study psychology. She said to tell you thank you.”
“For what?”
“For connecting the dots. She said if you hadn’t figured out the pattern, she’d still be thinking she was the only one, that what happened was somehow her fault.”
“She should thank Dr. Newwin. She’s the one who noticed.”
“Mom wants you to come for Christmas dinner, by the way. She’s making your favorite tourtière.”
I smiled. Karen and I had worked hard to rebuild our relationship over the past year. There had been anger and hurt, difficult conversations about accountability and forgiveness. But we were family. We’d both loved Michael too much to let his memory be tarnished by permanent distance between us.
“Tell her I’ll be there.”
As I drove home that evening through the familiar Calgary streets, I thought about that night Connor called me from the emergency department. How scared he’d been. How close we’d come to missing the signs, to letting Derek continue hurting kids who couldn’t protect themselves.
In my three decades as a firefighter, I’d responded to thousands of emergencies. I’d pulled people from burning buildings, freed them from crushed vehicles, held their hands while paramedics worked to save their lives. But something about this situation had stayed with me in a way most calls didn’t.
Maybe because it involved family. Maybe because Connor had trusted me enough to make that desperate call when he’d run out of other options. Or maybe because unlike the emergencies I’d responded to during my career, this one didn’t announce itself with alarms and obvious danger.
This emergency had been quiet, hidden behind closed doors and pleasant facades, visible only to those who knew what to look for.
These days, I volunteer with a program Greg Patterson helped establish, training teachers and healthcare workers to recognize the subtle signs of abuse, to document properly, to ask the right questions. Dr. Newwin jokes that I’m more passionate about it than I ever was about firefighting. She might be right.
Because I learned something important from Connor’s situation: the worst emergencies aren’t always the ones that scream for attention. Sometimes they’re the whispered phone calls at 1:30 in the morning from teenagers who’ve run out of options and just need someone to believe them.
My phone buzzed with a text from Karen: Christmas dinner confirmed. Connor’s bringing his girlfriend. Can’t wait to see you, big brother.
I smiled and typed back: Can’t wait either. Love you.
Outside my window, Calgary’s skyline glittered against the Rocky Mountain foothills. Thousands of homes with thousands of stories. Some happy, some hiding desperate secrets.
But somewhere in this city, maybe there was a kid who would remember Connor’s story, who would find the courage to make that call, to ask for help.
And somewhere, someone would answer.
That thought, more than anything, helped me sleep well at night.
