Chapter 9
Danielle
Tina knocks lightly on my bedroom door before walking in. I’ve been sitting in the armchair by the window, staring out for the last four hours.
“Elle, sweetie, it’s the middle of the night,” she says, her voice husky from sleep. “Have you even gone to bed?”
I shake my head. “What are you doing up? I haven’t made any noise.”
“No,” she says, lifting a bottle of water. “I got thirsty.”
I nod and let my gaze drift back to the moonlight outside the window.
With the lights on, the only thing I see is my reflection—puffy, red eyes, disheveled hair, blotchy skin, and a look that says I’m lost. It’s one I recognize far too well.
I might be twenty-four years old, but on a night like tonight, I feel like that lost little girl who got left behind while my little sister got taken.
Always wondering if she’d been rescued, or if she was thrown into a situation like so many before. Only this time, I wasn’t there to save her.
"Elle," she begins gently, not wanting to set me off again. "Remember when we were at the park?"
"That seems like a lifetime ago," I say, giving her a slight smile. "I can't believe that was just hours ago."
"Remember how happy Beth looked?"
The question throws me. I’ve been so busy thinking about the last ten years without my sister, I didn’t stop to think about the ten years of her life without me.
I nod, recalling the vibrant, competitive, strong teenager I saw out on the field. "She was fearless," I finally say.
"Exactly," Tina says, letting a smile form on her lips. "She's healthy. Happy. Cal told you about his little sister. She is living a full life, Elle. That has to count for something."
The mention of Cal’s name tightens my chest until I can’t breathe.
"You know," I begin, forcing myself to put Cal on the backburner for now, "before Izzy and I got separated, I'd read her a bedtime story every night.
Even if our foster parents didn't have any children's books, I'd make up my own.
Those were the best. They always involved characters who had the life we could only dream about—parents who loved them, a swing set in the backyard, trips to the park, friendships that lasted years, and a brother.
We always wanted a brother. A tall, strong brother who would fight for us and keep us safe. "
"Elle," Tina cuts in gently, "Izzy got all that, and more. You can rest assured now that what you imagined for the last ten years was only a bad dream. The reality is a bright one, filled with everything in those stories you made up."
"The story didn’t include me," I say bitterly. "I’m thankful Izzy got the life we dreamed about, but I had to survive alone."
"Oh, Elle," Tina whispers, her tone filled with pity.
"I'm grateful—thankful that she got the love, safety, and peace we both prayed for," I say.
"When she got old enough to understand cruelty, we would pray every day that things would get better.
That our grandfather would change his mind.
That we could move in with him and live happily ever after.
As a teenager, I knew better. I no longer believed in fairy tales.
But as a four-year-old, Izzy always believed that tomorrow would be better. I'm glad tomorrow came for her."
"It did," Tina says, her eyes filling with the tears I refuse to shed for myself. "But it never came for you."
"No," I say, meeting her gaze. "Why didn’t they want me?"
"I don’t know," Tina says, wrapping her arms around me as the first tear escapes and rolls down my cheek.
***
"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Tina asks, taking one last bite of her toast before getting up and rushing to the door.
"I'll be fine," I say. "I'm going to go over Dawson's report."
"Okay," she says. "Call me if you need anything. I might be pulling a double shift, so I’ll be home late."
I nod. "Thank you," I say, offering her a weak smile.
"You're welcome," she replies, slinging her purse over her shoulder and heading out. I hear the soft click of the lock turning before I shift my focus to the laptop sitting on the table in front of me.
My hands tremble as I open the email. The subject line reads, Final Report – Hazel Elizabeth Hartman.
My heart thuds.
I click the attachment, and the first line punches me in the chest.
Subject Identified: Hazel Elizabeth Hartman is now legally known as Elizabeth Hazel Callahan.
“Elizabeth Hazel Callahan,” I whisper, tasting the name on my tongue. “Just enough to make her disappear."
I scroll further. Dawson included a scanned copy of the amended birth certificate.
Adoptive Parents: Mitchell and Johanna Callahan.
Adoption finalized on September 8, ten years ago.
"Oh my God," I breathe, pressing a hand to my mouth. "They adopted her exactly six months later. Almost to the day."
I skim through the background summary.
Beth lives in a single-family home in Madison and is currently enrolled at Southpointe High School.
She is 14 years old and enjoys soccer, cheerleading, and reading.
She has four brothers—Thomas (25), Seth (25), Jackson (32), and Nathan (37)—all of whom live outside the home and are not married.
She also has a five-year-old niece, Hannah Callahan, daughter of Jackson Callahan (divorced).
I was so eager to tell Cal the good news that I never even looked at the report. If I had seen it first, I wouldn’t have been blindsided by the truth. I could’ve prepared a plan of attack. Been on the offensive instead of scrambling on the defensive. I must have looked so stupid.
My eyes blur. I blink hard.
“She loves reading.” I smile through the ache.
A photo loads at the bottom of the report. It’s a candid shot—Beth in her soccer uniform, grinning and flushed from a game, Cal’s arm slung over her shoulder. His head is bent toward hers, mid-laugh.
I stare at it like it might change.
The man who tore her from my arms got to live the life of her sibling. The life that should’ve been mine. Mine and no one else’s.
"She looks so much like mom,” I murmur. “God… she's beautiful.”
I click through more pictures. Her with a couple that I assume are her parents at some dinner. One of her holding a trophy. One blurry, probably taken from a distance—Beth on the front porch, mid-laugh with Hannah at her side.
“I missed it all.” My voice cracks. “Every birthday. Every scraped knee. Every first day of school.”
I scroll to the investigator’s closing summary.
Subject appears well-adjusted in a stable, loving home environment.
No known disciplinary issues or health concerns reported.
The adoption was finalized as closed, following a recommendation by a senior staff member at the group home, citing the older sibling’s emotional instability and behavioral challenges at the time.
Records indicate the adoptive family was made aware of the older sibling’s placement in the group home but had no direct contact.
When the older sibling, Danielle Hartman, ran away from the group home at age fifteen, her whereabouts became unknown. Efforts to locate her were unsuccessful. There is no record indicating that the adoptive parents were informed of her location after that point.
A sob crawls up my throat. I swallow it.
“Ran away?” I say aloud. "That never happened."
Another document is labeled Interview Summary—a typed paragraph from someone who worked at the group home. It’s vague but confirms what I feared:
Hazel was removed due to abuse allegations in a prior foster placement and placed into immediate adoption custody. Subject’s sister, Danielle Hartman, absconded from state care a year after placement at age fifteen. Whereabouts are unknown.
My hands curl into fists.
My eyes settle on one last line at the bottom of the report:
Subject’s knowledge of biological sibling's existence, identity, or location is unknown. Further investigation regarding this matter will be granted upon request.
“Does she remember me?” I whisper. “Does she even know I exist?”
The tears come freely now. I pull my knees to my chest and let them fall.
"But I remember you," I say. "And I'm going to find a way to show you that I never stopped looking. Never stopped loving you. Never stopped being your big sister."
I click on the Reply button.
Dear Mr. Dawson,
Thank you again for all the information you compiled in the report. After reviewing the documents, I have a few follow-up questions I’m hoping you can help me with.
Specifically, I’d like to request the name of the staff member from the group home who recommended that my sister’s adoption be closed.
I also need to know who officially labeled me as a “troubled child” or claimed that I had run away from the facility.
These are serious statements, and I’d like to understand who made those determinations and what they were based on.
Additionally, I noticed a line indicating that Hazel—now Elizabeth—has no knowledge of my existence. Can you confirm whether this is still the case? Was she ever told she had a sister, or has that information been withheld from her entirely? Does she even know she's adopted?
I appreciate your discretion and assistance as I try to make sense of everything.
Warm regards,
Elle Keaton
After clicking Send, I lean back in the chair and take a few deep breaths, trying to ground myself. Sitting here and waiting for Dawson’s reply will only drive me crazy. Maybe a run will help clear my head… settle the nerves twisting in my gut.
***
Emotional instability.
Behavioral challenges.
Runaway.
Absconded from state care. The words play on a loop in my mind, each one landing harder than the last with every pounding step of my run.
All lies.
Who at the center would blatantly lie about me… just to keep me from ever seeing my sister again?
Who would fabricate a story about me running away?
Who... and why?
***
I remove my running shoes just inside the door and toss them aside, eager to check my email, hoping Dawson responded to my request.
I swipe the sweat from my face and tap open my inbox, my chest still rising and falling from the run. The moment I see Dawson’s name, I stop breathing—one trembling finger hovering over the touchpad, afraid to click.
I read his message once.
Then again.
And again.
Elle,
I understand how difficult this must be for you, and I want you to know I’ve pursued every lead thoroughly.
The information you’re asking about—who labeled you a behavioral risk and recommended the closed adoption—came from a file someone allowed me limited access to, under the condition that their involvement stay confidential.
I gave my word I wouldn’t expose them, and for professional and ethical reasons, I have to honor that promise. To protect that source, I can’t disclose the staff member’s name either.
If you’re determined to pursue it, there might be a way through the courts. Just know it could take time, and it won’t be easy.
Regarding your other question, my search did not uncover any records indicating a formal disclosure of a biological sibling.
Such disclosures are typically at the discretion of the adoptive parents.
Please let me know if you would like me to pursue an investigation into what, if anything, the Callahan family has disclosed to Izzy/Beth.
—Dawson
Confidential source. Protected identity. Ethical reasons.
A sharp breath escapes my lips, half a laugh, half a sob, and I press the heels of my hands to my forehead.
He knows who it is.
He knows who lied about me. Who called me unstable. Who said I ran away. Who made sure I’d never find Izzy.
And he won’t tell me.
I clench my jaw until it aches. My eyes sting, the tears coming fast and hot—frustration and heartbreak rolled into one unbearable lump in my throat.
“They lied about me,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
My fists close against my knees, nails biting into skin. “They ruined everything. And he knows who did it.”
A pillow hits the wall before I even realize I’ve thrown it.
Then I just sit there, breathing hard, trying not to scream. Trying not to fall apart.
Not yet.