Chapter 3 - THE TABLET THAT EXISTED TWICE
Adrian came home the next morning.
Sawyer did not run to him.
That hurt.
He sat at the kitchen table with Rex on his lap and watched Adrian enter with a travel bag.
Adrian stopped.
“Hey, buddy.”
Sawyer looked at me.
I nodded.
He could choose.
Sawyer asked:
“Did you tell Imogen my room is Felix’s?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her I leave?”
“No.”
“Did you stop adoption?”
Adrian looked at me.
Then back at Sawyer.
“I paused the paperwork because I thought somebody might be pretending to be me.”
“Why?”
“Because I found something on my computer I didn’t write.”
Sawyer thought.
“Imogen?”
“I don’t know for sure yet.”
Good.
No adult certainty placed on a child.
Then Sawyer touched Rex.
“You wrote note.”
“Yes.”
“Why not tell Mom?”
Adrian swallowed.
“Because I made a bad decision.”
Sawyer nodded.
“Mom says grown-ups do.”
Apparently I had created a house philosophy.
Adrian held out one hand.
Sawyer hesitated.
Then moved closer.
Not into a hug.
Just close enough for Adrian to touch his shoulder.
That was enough for now.
We did not spend the morning repairing our marriage.
We preserved evidence.
Adrian’s old tablet remained in his locked office.
Police arranged digital collection.
Serial number.
Cloud history.
Access logs.
No amateur investigation.
The physical tablet showed no messages sent to Imogen.
But Adrian’s cloud account showed a second device restored from an older backup.
ADRIAN-IPAD-OLD-2.
It had authenticated while Adrian was in Nevada.
The suspicious messages had not been sent through Adrian’s phone carrier.
They had been sent through the synced internet-message account.
That did not yet prove Imogen held the second device.
Then adoption lawyer Hannah Cole called.
“The adoption is paused, not withdrawn.”
Sawyer was at school by then.
Good.
No child listening.
Hannah continued:
“I also need to disclose that somebody contacted my office six days ago.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Who?”
“Blocked number. Woman. She described herself as a family member helping with household logistics.”
“What did she ask?”
“Whether a step-parent adoption can proceed if a child’s residence changes before finalization.”
My hands tightened.
“What did you say?”
“That the court and evaluator care about stability, but a room change by itself does not terminate an adoption.”
“What else?”
“She asked whether the child must have a permanent bedroom in the marital home.”
There.
The stripped shelves.
The boxes.
The photographs Imogen had taken.
“Did she give a name?”
“No.”
“Did she mention Sawyer?”
“No.”
“Adrian?”
“No.”
Then Hannah said:
“There’s another reason I need you both to slow down.”
“What?”
“Rosalind, police reports describe you dumping a box over Imogen and causing her to fall.”
“Yes.”
“Any injury?”
“Bruised hip. No serious injury.”
“The evaluator may want to review the household conflict before continuing.”
My stomach dropped.
Imogen slapped Sawyer.
Yet my retaliation still mattered.
Hannah continued:
“That does not make her assault disappear. It does mean the adoption process examines the entire home environment.”
I closed my eyes.
My mistake had a cost.
Good.
It should.
Then Daniel called.
Imogen’s ex-husband.
“Felix is with me.”
“Good.”
“He says he thought they were spending one night at your house.”
“Imogen was moving his backpack into Sawyer’s room.”
“He didn’t know.”
“I believe him.”
Then Daniel said:
“She told me her apartment had water damage.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
Another lie.
“She’s been talking about Adrian’s adoption for months.”
“What does she say?”
“That once Sawyer becomes legal family, nothing can be undone.”
I looked at Adrian.
He heard.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Daniel hesitated.
“She keeps mentioning Beatrice’s family fund.”
Adrian’s face changed.
His late mother’s foundation.
I had heard of it.
Never cared.
Education grants.
Medical support.
Summer programs.
Family philanthropy.
Something wealthy families make complicated because apparently simply paying school tuition is too easy.
“How does Sawyer affect it?”
Adrian shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re sure?”
“I know legal descendants qualify automatically for some programs after adoption.”
“Does Felix lose money?”
“No. Grants aren’t split like an inheritance.”
“Then why would Imogen care?”
Daniel answered.
“She cares about who gets to decide.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Because Imogen’s cruelty had not sounded like a woman afraid Felix would lose school tuition.
It sounded like a woman guarding rank.
Your cousin owns this room now.
Even your toys know you’ve been replaced.
Replacement.
May you like
Not need.
Status.
