Chapter 3 - THE BOY WHO STOPPED ASKING
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I read the messages until the words blurred.
Noah's passport?
Why would anyone mention his passport unless someone planned to take him somewhere?
I called the number. It went straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
By then, Margaret had returned with information about an attorney who handled emergency custody matters. Her name was Rebecca Shaw, and she agreed to meet me the following morning.
When I showed Margaret the photograph, her expression changed.
“Do you recognize the room?”
“It's Noah's bedroom.”
“Look at the window.”
I enlarged the picture.
Beyond the curtains, the sky was almost completely dark. Noah was wearing his pajamas, but a suitcase stood open beside his bed. One of his stuffed animals lay on top of it.
He wasn't simply sitting in his bedroom.
Someone had been packing.
My hands began to shake.
Margaret immediately contacted hospital security and documented the message. She also advised me not to confront Alexander before Rebecca could assess the situation.
I tried to follow her advice.
I lasted twenty-three minutes.
I called Alexander.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“What now, Emily?”
“Where is Noah's passport?”
Silence.
Then a low, humorless laugh.
“Who has been talking to you?”
“Answer me.”
“It's a child's passport. I can keep it wherever I want.”
“Are you planning to take him out of the country?”
“Don't be ridiculous.”
“Then why was someone packing his suitcase?”
His voice turned cold.
“You are in no condition to make decisions about our son.”
“I'm his mother.”
“And you signed an agreement.”
“An agreement you want me to sign again, this time claiming your men didn't nearly kill me.”
“You need to calm down.”
“No. I need to know where my son is.”
Alexander hung up.
I stared at the phone, my heart pounding so hard that the monitor beside my bed began to beep faster.
Margaret rushed in.
“What happened?”
“He knows about the photograph.”
“Did he admit anything?”
“No.”
“Then we document what we have and let the attorney act.”
The following morning, Rebecca Shaw arrived carrying a leather briefcase and a stack of documents. She had sharp eyes, a quiet voice, and no patience for intimidation.
She read my divorce agreement from beginning to end.
“This custody provision is not the final word,” she said. “We need to examine the circumstances under which you signed it, especially if you were pressured or misled. And your injuries are significant enough that we need to preserve every piece of evidence.”
“Can you get Noah back?”
“I can seek emergency orders and request that the court prevent either parent from removing him from the jurisdiction while the dispute is pending. But I need facts, not assumptions.”
I showed her the messages.
Rebecca studied the photograph for a long time.
“Do you know who sent it?”
“No.”
“Then we need to find out.”
She asked me to describe everyone who worked at the mansion. I named the house manager, the cook, the driver, the housekeepers, and the guards.
When I mentioned Daniel Price, the head of household security, Rebecca stopped writing.
“Did Daniel witness the assault?”
“I don't know. He was responsible for the guards, but I didn't see him in the bedroom.”
“Would he have access to the security cameras?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca exchanged a look with Margaret.
“Then he may be important.”
That afternoon, Rebecca filed an emergency request for temporary visitation and restrictions on international travel. She also sent a formal preservation notice concerning the mansion's security recordings.
Alexander's attorneys responded within an hour.
They claimed the assault allegations were fabricated, that I had a history of emotional instability, and that my injuries were the result of a fall.
I had never been hospitalized for emotional instability. I had never fallen down the mansion's staircase.
But I knew how easily money could turn a lie into a convincing story.
Then Rebecca received a call.
She listened without speaking, her expression growing more serious with every passing second.
When she hung up, she turned toward me.
“The house manager has agreed to speak with us privately.”
“Why?”
“She says she has something that belongs to Noah.”
“What?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“A letter your son wrote to you.”
My throat tightened.
“Noah can't write.”
“Apparently, he tried.”
Rebecca handed me a photograph of a piece of paper covered in uneven crayon marks. Beneath a crooked drawing of three people, someone had written the words Noah had dictated.
Dear Mommy, Daddy says you went away because you don't love me anymore. Please come home. Vanessa says I have to forget you. I don't want to.
I pressed the paper against my chest.
Then Rebecca showed me the date.
It had been written two days before the assault.
May you like
At the bottom, in handwriting that did not belong to a child, someone had added a final sentence.
If you are reading this, they may already be gone.
