Chapter 8: The Woman at My Front Door
Detective Harris didn't waste a second.
He called for an emergency patrol unit and ordered another officer to accompany us.
"Mrs. Mitchell, where is your husband?""
"Right here.""
"Then neither of you is going home alone.""
Mark grabbed his jacket.
"What about Noah?""
"He stays at the hospital until we secure your residence.""
I looked toward the pediatric room.
My little boy was sitting on the bed, coloring a dinosaur.
He looked up when I entered.
"Mommy, are we going home?""
I forced a smile.
"Not just yet, sweetheart.""
"Did I do something wrong?""
My chest tightened.
"No, baby. You did nothing wrong.""
"Then why can't we go home?""
I sat beside him.
"Sometimes grown-ups have to fix things before everyone can feel safe again.""
He considered that.
Then he held up his drawing.
It showed three people holding hands beneath a bright yellow sun.
Me.
Mark.
And Noah.
At the top, he'd written:
*MY SAFE PLACE.*
I kissed his forehead.
"That's my favorite picture.""
A nurse agreed to stay with him while two officers remained nearby.
Mark and I followed Detective Harris to his vehicle.
The drive to our house felt endless.
Chicago's evening traffic crawled past the windows. Every passing car made me look over my shoulder.
"Do you think she's really been inside our house?"" I asked.
Mark kept his eyes on the road.
"Sarah, Vanessa had a key. Dr. Price could have copied it.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"I didn't know until this afternoon.""
"You knew enough to suspect something was wrong.""
He didn't answer.
I turned toward him.
"How long have you been keeping things from me?""
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
"Two weeks ago, I found a payment to Bright Futures in one of our business accounts.""
"What?""
"Someone had used our company's name to make a donation.""
"Why would they do that?""
"I don't know. But the amount was exactly the same as the payment listed beside Noah's name.""
I stared at him.
"Someone used our company?""
"Yes.""
Detective Harris turned around from the passenger seat.
"Did you report it?""
"Not yet. I wanted to understand what was happening.""
The detective frowned.
"That information should have been given to investigators.""
Mark nodded.
"I know.""
We arrived at our house shortly after seven.
Two police vehicles were already parked outside.
One officer approached the front entrance while another inspected the backyard.
The front door was locked.
But the small decorative planter beside it had been moved.
I immediately noticed.
"That wasn't there before.""
Detective Harris followed my gaze.
"Stay behind me.""
He approached the door.
The lock was undamaged.
He knocked.
"Chicago Police Department!""
No response.
An officer checked the handle.
The door opened.
My stomach dropped.
The security chain was hanging loose.
Someone had been inside.
We entered carefully.
The living room looked normal.
The television was off.
The cushions were neatly arranged.
But when I walked toward the hallway, I noticed something on the coffee table.
A framed photograph of Noah.
It had been turned face down.
Detective Harris photographed it.
"Nobody touches anything.""
We checked the kitchen.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
Then we entered Noah's bedroom.
His dinosaur blanket was folded at the foot of the bed.
His stuffed animals were arranged on the pillow.
But the window was open.
I stepped forward.
"That window was locked.""
An officer examined the latch.
"It looks like someone opened it from inside.""
I felt sick.
Then Detective Harris noticed something taped beneath the desk.
A small envelope.
He carefully removed it.
On the front were two words.
*FOR SARAH.*
Inside was a printed document.
It was a copy of my original parental consent form from three years earlier.
At the bottom was my signature.
But this version contained an additional paragraph I had never seen.
In the event of repeated behavioral noncompliance, the parent authorizes Bright Futures Family Services to arrange temporary protective placement without further consultation.
I shook my head.
"I never signed that.""
Mark took the document.
"This isn't the version we received.""
Detective Harris examined the paper.
"Someone added this clause.""
Then he looked at the back.
There was a handwritten message.
*ASK YOUR HUSBAND ABOUT THE FIRST TRANSFER.*
I turned toward Mark.
"What first transfer?""
He went pale.
"Sarah...""
"What is she talking about?""
He looked down.
"Before Noah started Westbrook, there was an assessment.""
"I know that.""
"No. There was another assessment.""
My throat tightened.
"When?""
"When Noah was four.""
I stared at him.
"You told me that was just a developmental screening.""
"It was supposed to be.""
"Mark, what happened?""
He rubbed his face.
"Vanessa recommended a residential evaluation. I refused.""
I felt the room tilt.
"You refused?""
"Yes.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"Because I knew you'd panic. Noah was healthy, and I didn't want you worrying.""
"Someone tried to send our son away when he was four, and you kept it from me?""
He nodded.
I stepped backward.
"Who authorized the assessment?""
Mark opened his mouth.
But before he could answer, Detective Harris's radio crackled.
"Detective, we've found something in the garage.""
We hurried downstairs.
An officer stood beside a metal storage cabinet.
Its door was open.
Inside were several boxes containing old school documents, medical reports, and photographs.
On top was a large envelope.
Detective Harris pulled it out.
It was addressed to Mark.
He opened it.
Inside was a photograph of Noah at four years old, sitting in a doctor's office.
Beside him was Mark.
And standing behind them was Dr. Eleanor Price.
I looked at my husband.
"You told me you had never met her.""
Mark closed his eyes.
"I lied.""
Before I could speak, his phone rang.
The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number.
He answered.
A woman's voice came through the speaker.
"Hello, Mark. I see you've finally brought Sarah into the picture.""
Dr. Price.
Mark switched on speakerphone.
"What do you want?""
"To prevent a tragedy.""
I stepped closer.
"You've been inside my house.""
A soft laugh came through the phone.
"Sarah, I have always been interested in Noah's welfare.""
"Stay away from my son.""
"That's becoming difficult.""
Detective Harris gestured for us to remain quiet.
Dr. Price continued.
"Your husband knows what happened during the first assessment. Perhaps he should finally tell you why Noah was selected.""
I turned toward Mark.
"Selected for what?""
There was a pause.
Then Dr. Price said:
"Because Noah isn't the first child in your family to be evaluated by us.""
My heart stopped.
"What does that mean?""
Mark looked at the floor.
Dr. Price's voice softened.
"Ask your husband about his sister.""
The call ended.
I stared at Mark.
"Your sister?""
He hadn't mentioned having a sister in years.
He swallowed.
Then he said:
May you like
"Her name was Rebecca.""
And for the first time since I'd known him, my husband began to cry.
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