Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The email response comes quickly, and I find ways to stall with Simon. I need a bath. I just want to sit and breathe for a moment. He’s here for whatever I need. By the afternoon, all our bags are packed and loaded into the car, and Simon is still buzzing with adrenaline.
Most of the remaining wedding guests have left—I’ve watched them from the window loading into their cars, pretending not to have overheard the family drama.
Simon is distracted on his phone when I spot the car pulling into the driveway.
It’s time.
“We should go,” I tell him finally.
He looks up at me, brows knitted together. “You’re ready?”
As we make our way downstairs—Simon still tapping away—the house feels strange. Like an empty arena after a big game. There are signs the party existed—things out of place, a random champagne flute or small plate here and there—but mostly it’s just quiet. Heavy. Wrong.
The Mornings are gracious enough to allow us our privacy as we descend the stairs. Wherever they’re hiding, they aren’t planning to say goodbye.
When the doorbell rings, Simon looks my way.
There are three sharp raps against the wooden front door. I feel the impact in my bones. Simon glances at the door, then over his shoulder toward the kitchen. He looks sick, worried. We make our way down the narrow hall as the knocks repeat themselves impatiently.
This time, I hear footsteps behind us. I don’t dare check to see who it is.
Simon pulls open the door and goes dreadfully still at the sight of the uniformed officers. There are three of them—two unfamiliar and one I recognize instantly.
“Carl,” Simon addresses Officer Watson, his voice powerless.
Watson tips his head toward something over my shoulder. His mouth is tight. “Pierce.”
There’s something dark and unspoken behind his eyes, like he’s trying to communicate without words. Then, his eyes fall on me. He leans back just a tad.
The officer in front of him addresses Pierce directly. “Mr. Morning, we have a warrant to search your property.”
My stomach caves inward. He produces a handful of folded paper, so crisp white it burns my eyes.
Simon’s hand finds mine as Pierce brushes past us. It’s ice-cold. “What’s this about?” he demands.
I smell Rachelle before I hear her, her warm and spicy perfume reaching my nose. She lingers back in the hallway, silent and watching.
Pierce takes the papers from the first officer. “What does any of this mean? A warrant for what? Surely there’s some misunderstanding. Tell them, Carl.”
But Carl doesn’t speak. He just looks down. Carl is a traitor in every way that matters.
The officer’s tone is clipped. “Any and all documents related to Mourning Dove Foster and Adoption Advocacy Services, which you sit on the board for. Step aside, sir.”
The laugh that escapes Pierce’s throat is nervous. “It’s…advisory. More symbolic than anything. Why would I have anything here?”
The officer scans the room slowly, not buying it. “We’ll need to ask you some questions about that too. Regarding several previous foster-to-adopt cases you oversaw.”
The sentence hits like a brick to the chest. I see it in Pierce’s stance. Rachelle takes quick steps toward him and stands pin-straight at his side, her hands resting one atop the other on his shoulder, as if posing for a portrait.
I inhale through my nose, low and slow.
It comes back to me all at once. How interested they were in my work at the foster care nonprofit.
How, even before that, I’d come to my supervisor with the suspicion that certain judges were biased in some way, how so many of their rulings went in the favor of the adoptive families rather than the birth families. Even when I’d seen significant improvement in their cases.
And then, after I met Simon, the Morning name jumped out at me in a file I was working through, linked to one of the cases we’d recently seen nudged toward adoption rather than reunification.
After that, it was a frequency illusion. Everywhere I looked, in every file, there was a connection to the Mornings. And the deeper I dove, the more issues I saw.
Rachelle had volunteered to be a child advocate on numerous occasions.
Pierce Morning sat on the board of a major foster care and adoption advocacy group.
Many, many of the adoptions that happened under a handful of judges went to people connected to the Mornings, people who wrote big checks to Mourning Dove Services.
All those years ago, even though I didn’t completely realize what I’d uncovered, I knew it was bad. Dangerous. I also knew any amount of scrutiny on his family would only hurt Simon.
And so, I made a choice.
I kept the secret.
It was a hard, painful move. A gut decision based on a relationship that was just starting but that I dove headfirst into regardless.
Deleting the documents from our company’s server cost me my job.
But something in my gut told me I needed insurance. And just this morning, I used it.
In an email to a journalist friend of mine, I attached the file with every piece of evidence I saved, along with detailed notes about what I knew back then. What I suspected.
And then, I waited for confirmation that redemption was coming.
The officer clears his throat, ripping me back to the present. “We’ll ask to speak with each of you separately. Anything anyone would like to share in good faith is welcome.”
Pierce moves forward, away from Rachelle, blocking the door. “This is harassment. I demand to know what this is about. What you think you know. We won’t be speaking to anyone without our attorneys present.”
“You’re well within your rights to do so. However, we will be coming in to do a thorough search of the premises.” The officer steps forward, and Pierce moves back, like a wave against the shore. He looks my way. “You’re Astrid.”
My blood goes cold. I nod.
“My partner can take you outside.” He points to the man behind him. “If you want to talk.”
Pierce lets out a loud gasp of air. “Ah, I see. You’ve spoken with my daughter-in-law.
Officer, I think this is all just a misunderstanding.
She’s…had a difficult week. Her medication can occasionally lead to confusion, which I think is the case here.
I’m certain whatever she told you wasn’t the entire story. If you’ll just?—”
“That’s not true,” I argue.
“She called us a while back,” Officer Watson says, stepping up next to the first officer. “Said she was talking to some girl on the radio.” He gives him a solemn look. “It wasn’t… There was no little girl.”
Pierce points a finger at Watson, nodding aggressively. “Yes, see. He’ll tell you. She’s been hearing voices, breaking into rooms. Calling the police. She’s paranoid, and we’ve done our best to keep this as a family matter, but I’m afraid it’s gone too far this time.”
My skin crawls, eyes darting to Simon. Waiting to see what he’ll do.
When he doesn’t speak or meet my eyes right away, I open my mouth.
“They locked me in a room.” My voice shakes, but I force it out.
“They impersonated a child over the radio. They stole my things to make me think I’d misplaced them.
It wasn’t something I imagined—it was real.
An elaborate hoax to make me seem unstable, which I am not.
They’ve been monitoring me, planting things, stealing things, gaslighting me?—”
“See?” Pierce cuts in. “You’ll see why we’re so concerned, clearly.”
“He’s lying to you,” I cry.
“She’s on medication for psychiatric conditions. Her mother…well, it’s a tragic situation. Neglect led to foster care, which led to a host of problems.”
My throat clamps shut. How could he possibly know all of that? Would Simon tell him? Or did he look into me?
“I’m…yes, I’m on medication. For depression.
I’m not imagining things. And my mother didn’t neglect me.
She was a single mom working two jobs. She was…
She left me home alone once when I was seven because my sitter canceled at the last minute.
She didn’t have a choice, but a neighbor called the police.
Tell them, Simon. Please. God, say something. ”
Every head in the room turns to Simon.
Everything stops, even the breath in my chest.
It all comes down to him.
Simon’s face is pale. His eyes flick between me, his father, his brother, and the officers. I can practically see him unraveling as the weight of this moment settles over him like drying concrete.
He knows the truth now. All of it. What they did to me. What I’ve done to them. He knows what’s in those files, even if I didn’t actually tell him the files existed. He has to.
“Everything I sent is legitimate. You’ll be able to confirm most of it with court documents,” I tell the officer, desperate to fill the silence.
“Tell them the truth, Simon,” Pierce says. “Tell them how we’ve struggled to keep her grounded in reality from the moment her mother passed away.”
…from the moment her mother passed away.
…mother passed away
…passed away.
…passed away.
No.
His words become a tunnel. An echo. The room fades to darkness. I’m numb. I’ve disappeared. Nothing is real. Nothing is real.
Coldness sinks around me, swallowing me whole. I close my eyes, refusing to hear his words. To believe them.
He’s wrong.
He’s lying.
He’s…
Their voices echo in my mind, dragging me back to a reality that can’t be real.
Simon, when we arrived: You’re sure you’re okay? You’ll let me know if this all gets to be…too much?
Simon, later when we talked about the reactions of my fertility and depression meds: And when paired with your other medicine…there was potential for anxiety. Depression. Irritability. There was a whole list of things to look out for. After your mom…
Pierce, that night I overheard them in the dining room: After…everything with her mother, it’s therapy she needs. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.
After everything…
Flashes come back to me at once—the phone call. The accident. Mom’s funeral. Simon, holding me while I screamed, while I broke down. Simon, brushing my hair when weeks had passed without me leaving the bed. Simon, insisting I talk to a doctor. Insisting I try the medicine she recommended.
But the phone call. The phone call was real. I just talked to her. I just talked to her.
Her voice whispers in my ear, ghosts of our conversation:
Astrid?
I was just on the couch watching my Tyra. Is everything okay? You’re not usually awake so late.
You sound sad. Are you taking your meds?
Did something happen?
You’re worrying me. Do you want me to come down there?
And Simon’s being nice?
You know I’m always going to be on your side, don’t you? No matter what you tell me.
Okay. Well…just remember it anyway. And remember, too, you don’t have to be like them. You can always just be you.
Love you too, pumpkin. Call me again soon, okay? I miss hearing from you.
Then, my voice:
I missed you.
No, I’m fine. Really.
I just wanted to hear your voice.
Okay, I’m going to go back to sleep now. I love you, Momma.
I miss you, too.
Hers again, distorted:
You sound sad. Are you taking your meds?
Except, I was never on meds when Mom was alive. She wouldn’t have known.
My knees give out. When Mom was alive.
Because she’s not…
It was a dream. It was all a dream. The phone call. Because she’s…
Stop it. Stop it.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be sad again. I can’t be sad again. I can’t lose her again.
I lean against the wall, hand on my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
No. No. No.
“You see,” Pierce says softly, gesturing toward my crumpled form.
I force the thoughts away, bitter tears stinging my eyes. How dare he? How dare he use my mother’s death—my grief from it—against me right now?
Simon meets his father’s eyes. Pierce nods just once, and only slightly. Barely a twitch. His eyes are confident, certain, though his face is as unreadable as ever.
He thinks he’s won. He thinks he knows where Simon’s loyalties lie.
He’s wrong.
Simon would never hurt me. He reaches out for me, eyes scanning my face. I’m stronger with him near me. I can be strong with him. I squeeze his hand, watching him closely.
“Simon?” I whisper, stroking the back of his hand with my free palm. “I’m okay. I’m sorry I… I’m so sorry.”
His breathing is ragged. His hand trembles in mine until the moment he drops it. He steps forward, positioning himself between his family and me.
He opens his mouth.
And I swear, everyone in the house stops breathing.