Chapter 2 - The Missing Sock
The paramedics arrived nine minutes later.
I knew because I watched the kitchen clock the entire time.
Every second felt too long.
Adam had taken Oliver into the living room, away from Celeste.
He sat on the couch holding the baby carefully while I stood nearby.
Celeste remained in the kitchen.
She kept demanding her phone.
Adam refused to hand it over.
"You're misunderstanding everything," she said.
He looked at her.
"Then explain why Oliver was in the sink."
She folded her arms.
"It was a photography project."
I stared at her.
"A photography project?"
"For the foster-care awareness campaign."
Adam's face hardened.
"Under a metal colander?"
"He wasn't hurt!"
I pointed toward Oliver.
"Then why is there a mark around his ankle?"
Celeste looked at me.
"You're exaggerating."
Adam stood carefully.
"Stop."
One word.
She fell silent.
When the paramedics entered, their attention went directly to Oliver.
They examined him, assessed his breathing and responsiveness, and recommended immediate hospital evaluation.
Adam agreed.
I explained what I'd witnessed.
Celeste interrupted repeatedly until a police officer who had arrived with the medical team asked her to step into another room.
Before the ambulance left, one paramedic looked at me.
"Are you injured?"
I touched my cheek.
"I'm okay."
He studied my face.
"You should have that examined."
I nodded.
But my attention remained on Oliver.
He was safely secured for transport, and Adam was preparing to accompany him.
I looked at the baby.
His tiny face.
His dark lashes.
The little fist opening and closing beside his chin.
"You're going to be okay, sweetheart," I whispered.
Adam turned toward me.
"Come with us."
I hesitated.
"I'm just his caregiver."
"You found him."
He swallowed.
"Please."
So I went.
At the hospital, a pediatrician examined Oliver.
His breathing and vital signs were reassuring, but the doctors wanted to evaluate the ankle mark and make sure he had not suffered any other injury.
They documented their findings and contacted the appropriate child-protection authorities.
I answered every question.
I didn't embellish anything.
I didn't claim to know why Celeste had done it.
I described what I saw.
The sink.
The colander.
The flour.
The missing sock.
The pressure mark.
The attack.
And the recording phone.
Adam sat beside the examination-room door.
His expensive blue shirt was covered in flour.
He hadn't noticed.
At one point, he looked at me.
"Nora."
I turned.
"I'm sorry."
I didn't answer.
He lowered his head.
"I brought you into our home because I thought Celeste needed help."
I studied him.
"Did you know she was doing things like this?"
"No."
His answer came immediately.
Then he looked toward the examination room.
"But I've ignored other things."
"What things?"
He rubbed his forehead.
"She wouldn't let me attend some of Oliver's appointments."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"She said I made everything more complicated."
"Anything else?"
He hesitated.
"She kept taking pictures of him."
"Parents take pictures."
"Not like these."
I waited.
"She photographed him crying. His dirty clothes. Every little mark on his skin."
My stomach tightened.
"What did she say they were for?"
"Documentation."
"Documentation of what?"
He looked at me.
"She said the agency wanted proof that Oliver had arrived in poor condition."
I stared at him.
"Oliver arrived here healthy."
Adam nodded.
"That's what the intake nurse said."
I remembered the day Oliver came to the Mercer house.
He wore a pale-yellow sleeper and a tiny knitted hat.
The agency worker had carried him through the front door in an infant car seat.
Celeste had cried.
She called him a miracle.
She told me she had waited years to become a mother.
But I also remembered something strange.
The agency worker had given Celeste a sealed packet of information.
Celeste immediately placed it in her office.
When I asked about Oliver's feeding schedule, she gave me a photocopy of one page.
She refused to let me see anything else.
At the time, I assumed she was protecting confidential information.
Now I wasn't sure.
The examination-room door opened.
A doctor stepped outside.
"Mr. Mercer?"
Adam stood.
"How is he?"
"He's stable. We're continuing the assessment, but there's no indication of an immediately life-threatening condition."
Adam nearly collapsed with relief.
The doctor continued.
"We've documented the ankle mark and will ensure the appropriate authorities receive the information."
I closed my eyes.
Oliver was safe.
At least for now.
Then Adam's phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
His face changed.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Celeste."
He answered.
"Nora's with me."
I heard Celeste's voice.
Loud.
Furious.
Then Adam said, "No. I am not bringing him home."
He listened.
His expression tightened.
"What do you mean, Lydia will fix it?"
My eyes opened.
Lydia.
Lydia Crane.
The agency worker who had placed Oliver with the Mercers.
Adam stared at the floor.
"Celeste, what did you tell her?"
A pause.
Then he whispered, "You sent her the video?"
I grabbed the arm of my chair.
Adam looked at me.
He ended the call.
"What happened?" I asked.
He swallowed.
"Celeste says she sent the footage to Lydia."
"Why?"
He stared at me.
"She says the agency is going to claim you endangered Oliver."
I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Me?"
Adam nodded.
"She says the video proves you left him in the sink."
I stood.
"That's a lie."
"I know."
"Adam, she put him there."
He looked toward the examination room.
Then back at me.
"I know."
I pressed my hands against my forehead.
The missing sock.
The flour.
The colander.
The camera.
May you like
Someone had staged a scene.
And apparently, I had walked directly into it.
