Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN IN ROOM 214
The anonymous number gave me an address.
A motel twenty miles away.
Room 214.
Mark wanted to call police.
I did.
Then I went anyway.
Two detectives followed.
The woman who opened the motel door looked exhausted.
Late twenties.
Blond hair tied back.
Scrubs under a gray coat.
“You’re Daniel?”
“Yes.”
She looked past me.
“Cops?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Her name was Lauren Pierce.
She had worked as an intake coordinator at Hawthorne Behavioral Center.
The place Rebecca planned to send Emily.
Lauren had quit four days earlier.
“Why did you contact me?”
“Because I recognized your daughter.”
She showed me an intake file.
Emily’s photograph was clipped to the front.
Severe aggression.
Compulsive lying.
Threats of self-harm.
Physical attacks against caregivers.
None of it was true.
“Who wrote this?”
Lauren pointed to a name.
Rebecca Sloan.
My almost-wife.
I felt sick.
“There are parent statements.”
“I never gave one.”
“I know.”
Lauren handed me an audio recorder.
“Listen.”
Rebecca’s voice filled the room.
“She’s manipulative.”
A man asked:
“Has she harmed herself?”
Rebecca paused.
Then said:
“She scratches.”
Emily had eczema.
The man asked:
“Violent incidents?”
Rebecca said:
“She threw a glass at me.”
Never happened.
“Father aware?”
“Yes.”
“Supportive of placement?”
“Completely.”
I wanted to smash the recorder.
Instead I set it down carefully.
Lauren continued.
“She paid extra.”
“For what?”
“Immediate lockdown intake.”
My throat tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“Once the child arrives, outside contact can be restricted for seventy-two hours.”
I stared at her.
“Even a parent?”
“With signed consent.”
The fake consent.
The signatures.
The plan had been terrifyingly simple.
Get married.
Move Emily immediately.
Cut contact.
Sell the assets.
By the time I fought through the legal mess, everything would be gone.
“Why did you quit?”
Lauren looked away.
“Because Hawthorne isn’t what its website says.”
“What happens there?”
She hesitated.
“Isolation.”
My stomach sank.
“Restraints.”
Mark looked up.
“For seven-year-olds?”
“If staff decides they’re dangerous.”
I closed my eyes.
Emily.
Small.
Scared.
Thinking I had sent her there.
I had to grip the edge of the table.
Lauren said:
“Rebecca wanted something else.”
“What?”
“She asked if Hawthorne would document that Emily became worse after separation from you.”
“Why?”
“To support permanent guardianship.”
Mark swore.
Rebecca wasn’t planning ninety days.
She was planning forever.
Lauren handed me another file.
“This is the one that scared me.”
Inside was a draft court petition.
Emergency Petition for Temporary Guardianship.
Petitioner:
Rebecca Sloan.
Supporting witness:
Dr. Alan Mercer.
I knew that name.
Rebecca’s therapist.
Or so I thought.
“Who is Mercer?”
Lauren’s face tightened.
“He’s not her therapist.”
“What is he?”
“Her ex-husband.”
The room went silent.
I had never known Rebecca was married before.
Lauren reached into her bag.
“There’s more.”
She pulled out a photograph.
Rebecca.
Dr. Mercer.
Diane.
And Robert.
All sitting around a restaurant table.
The date was eight months earlier.
Long before the wedding.
Long before Rebecca suggested therapy for Emily.
Long before Diane took the job at Mark’s office.
This hadn’t started six weeks ago.
It had started almost a year ago.
Then Detective Hall’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“Someone just broke into your house.”
I stood so fast the chair fell backward.
“Emily?”
“She’s safe.”
My lungs released.
“Then what did they take?”
Hall paused.
“Nothing.”
I stared at him.
“Then why break in?”
May you like
He swallowed.
“They left something in your daughter’s bedroom.”
