Chapter 2 - ADRIAN’S FIRST NO
Adrian called at 11:47 that night.
I answered before the first ring finished.
“Did you send those messages?”
No greeting.
No explanation.
Just the question.
“What messages?”
“Imogen has texts from you saying Sawyer needs another arrangement and she can clear his room.”
Silence.
Then:
“No.”
The answer came fast.
Not defensive.
Not confused.
No.
I sat down.
“She showed police.”
“I never sent them.”
“They’re from your account.”
“Send me screenshots.”
I did.
He stared at them while I listened to his breathing.
Then he said:
“I didn’t write that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I didn’t.”
“Adrian.”
“I don’t call Sawyer an arrangement.”
True.
He called problems arrangements.
Never Sawyer.
Then:
“Rosalind, what happened?”
I told him.
The slap.
The boxes.
Felix.
The note.
When I mentioned the note, he stopped me.
“You found that?”
“You put it inside Rex.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“I should have told you.”
My entire body went cold.
“That is not an explanation.”
“I saw Imogen grab Sawyer three weeks ago.”
“When?”
“At Mom’s old house.”
His mother, Beatrice, had died two years earlier.
The house was being prepared for sale.
Adrian and Imogen had gone through remaining family belongings.
Sawyer came with them.
“What happened?”
“He reached for one of Mom’s ceramic birds. Imogen grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm away.”
“Did he cry?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t Sawyer tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I did.”
I remembered.
Adrian came home irritated.
Said Imogen had “overreacted with Sawyer.”
I was finishing a work deadline.
I asked whether Sawyer was hurt.
Adrian said no.
I let the conversation end.
“That was not telling me she twisted his arm.”
“I know.”
“Why the note?”
“Because two days later I found a draft email on my old tablet.”
“To who?”
“My adoption lawyer.”
Everything went still.
“What did it say?”
“It looked like I had written it. It said I wanted to pause the adoption because I was reconsidering whether Sawyer should remain in the household.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did you write it?”
“No.”
“Was it sent?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I confronted Imogen.”
“And?”
“She said Felix must have typed something when he used the tablet.”
“A seven-year-old wrote an adoption email?”
“I didn’t believe her.”
“Then why did you leave town?”
“Because the work trip was already scheduled and I thought I had secured everything.”
“You thought?”
“I changed passwords. Took the tablet to my office. Changed the garage code.”
“She used a key.”
Silence.
“Mom gave her one years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Did you change the locks?”
“No.”
I stood.
“You thought your sister was impersonating you in an adoption case and you changed a password?”
“I was trying to confirm it before I accused her.”
“And you hid a warning in a stuffed dinosaur?”
He sounded ashamed.
“I repaired Rex the night before I left. I put the note in the seam because I thought if she somehow got into the house and you found it—”
“That is ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“No. It’s worse than ridiculous. If you believed Sawyer was unsafe around her, you tell me.”
“I should have.”
“Yes.”
“I was afraid you’d cancel the trip for me, call police before I had evidence, and everything would explode.”
I laughed once.
“Everything exploded.”
“I know.”
Then another silence.
“Rosalind, I paused the adoption filing.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Not canceled.”
“You paused it?”
“I asked Hannah not to submit the final packet until we verified whether someone was using my account.”
“You did that without telling me?”
“I was going to tell you when I got home.”
Sawyer had been waiting for this adoption for months.
Not because I pushed it.
Because he had asked.
His biological father had died when Sawyer was still a baby.
Adrian had never tried to replace him.
He simply became the man who packed lunches, sat through fevers, learned dinosaur names and stayed.
Then one evening Sawyer asked:
“Can Adrian be my dad on paper?”
The process had started slowly.
Carefully.
Now my husband had paused it because his sister might be trying to sabotage it.
And had kept me outside the decision.
“I’m furious with you.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean I believe Imogen.”
“I know.”
“I need you home.”
“First flight.”
“Good.”
Then I asked:
“Does Imogen know it was paused?”
“No.”
Unless she had access.
That changed everything.
Because earlier that afternoon she had told Sawyer:
Adrian already agreed you have to go.
Maybe she was bluffing.
Maybe she knew far more about our adoption case than she should.
Before ending the call, Adrian said:
“Rosalind?”
“What?”
“Don’t repair Rex yet.”
I looked at the dinosaur sleeping beside Sawyer.
“Why?”
“The thread.”
“What about it?”
“I used green thread.”
The torn seam had green thread.
“Does that matter?”
“Maybe only to me.”
He sounded exhausted.
“But I want to remember exactly when I wrote it.”
Source.
Timing.
Good.
Not magic evidence.
Something small.
We left the toy untouched.
Then I checked our home security history.
Imogen had entered at 2:07 p.m.
I left for groceries at 1:54.
No digital code.
Manual key.
She had waited until I was gone.
How did she know?
I opened our family location app.
Adrian.
Me.
No Imogen.
Then I checked login history.
One unfamiliar device.
ADRIAN-IPAD-OLD-2.
Connected to our family account at 1:49.
Five minutes before I left.
The same device name as the tablet Adrian claimed was locked inside his office.
May you like
Someone had created another copy of his old digital life.
And that person had watched my car leave before entering my house.
