Chapter 3 - The First Lie
Harlan did not answer Maren.
Nia did.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mercer, I’m Nia Brooks with hospital social services. Before either of you enter Sadie’s room, I need to speak with you separately.”
Maren’s mouth tightened.
“Separately?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because an eight-year-old child arrived by ambulance after being found alone in a residence while seriously ill.”
“We were coming back.”
Nia remained calm.
“What time were you scheduled to return?”
Maren glanced at Wesley.
That single glance was enough.
Harlan saw Wesley notice it too.
“We hadn’t decided,” Maren said.
Nia nodded.
“And what time did you leave?”
“About nine.”
Harlan looked away.
There it was.
The first provable lie.
Wesley had said eight.
Sadie’s medicine had apparently been given before sunset.
The note said they would return tomorrow morning.
Nia did not challenge Maren immediately.
Instead, she asked Wesley to wait in a consultation room while she spoke with Maren first.
Maren turned toward Harlan.
“You shouldn’t be here for this.”
“I’m not going in.”
“You shouldn’t have called anyone before calling us.”
“Sadie called you six times.”
Maren’s eyes flashed.
“She exaggerates.”
“She was on the floor.”
“She gets dramatic when she’s sick.”
Harlan stared at her.
Maren seemed to realize she was saying too much.
She lowered her voice.
“You’ve never liked me.”
“This is not about whether I like you.”
“You’ve been waiting for something like this.”
Harlan almost laughed, but there was nothing funny in it.
“I was asleep.”
Maren folded her arms.
“And now you get to be the investigator again.”
Harlan stepped closer, not threateningly, but enough that she had to meet his eyes.
“I would give anything for there to have been nothing to investigate tonight.”
The consultation room door opened.
Nia gestured for Maren.
She entered.
Harlan returned to Sadie’s room.
She was awake.
“Are they mad?”
“No one is allowed to be mad at you for getting sick.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Eight years old.
Already understanding the difference.
Harlan sat beside her.
“Your dad is worried.”
“Maren?”
Harlan chose his words carefully.
“Adults are talking.”
Sadie picked at the edge of her blanket.
“Is she going to know I showed you the calls?”
“Yes.”
Sadie went still.
Harlan noticed.
“What happens when she gets angry?”
“Nothing.”
Too fast.
He did not ask again.
Interviewing a child who might have experienced neglect was not something a family member should do.
He knew that better than anyone.
So he changed the subject.
“Want ice chips?”
Sadie nodded.
While she ate them slowly, Harlan looked around the room.
He had spent years sitting in rooms exactly like this beside children who had no relation to him.
Back then, he could compartmentalize.
Observe bruises without imagining how they hurt.
Record statements without hearing them again at three in the morning.
Study family histories with professional distance.
Now every monitor beep felt personal.
Every wince on Sadie’s face made him want answers immediately.
And wanting answers immediately was dangerous.
It could contaminate interviews.
Create pressure.
Turn truth into performance.
He reminded himself again.
Grandfather first.
Witness second.
Investigator never.
Not officially.
At 4:11, Nia returned.
“Harlan, can we speak outside?”
He followed her.
Nia closed the door.
“The police are making a report. Child Protective Services has been notified.”
Harlan nodded.
“That’s mandatory.”
“Yes.”
“What happens tonight?”
“The initial safety plan is still being determined. Sadie will remain here for observation for several hours.”
“And when she’s discharged?”
“That depends on what the agency determines.”
“I can take her.”
“I assumed you’d say that.”
“I have a bedroom. I live alone. No firearms in the house. No criminal record. Retired state employee. I can provide references.”
Nia almost smiled.
“You remember the process.”
“I used to run the process.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to skip it.”
“I know.”
Her expression became more serious.
“There’s something else.”
Harlan waited.
“Maren says you are hostile toward her and have been attempting to interfere in their parenting for years.”
“Expected.”
“She also says Sadie has behavioral issues involving lying, attention-seeking and deliberate manipulation.”
Harlan’s jaw tightened.
“What does Wesley say?”
“Not exactly the same thing.”
That mattered.
“How different?”
“I can’t share his interview.”
Harlan nodded.
“Of course.”
“But you should prepare yourself. This may not be treated as one isolated bad decision.”
Harlan stared at her.
“What did Sadie say?”
Nia held his gaze.
“I can’t discuss her interview either.”
He nodded again.
Then Nia added:
“I can tell you the agency has requested school records.”
Harlan felt a cold sensation move through him.
School records were requested when there was reason to look for a pattern.
He glanced through the glass.
Sadie had fallen asleep again.
“Is there a pattern?”
Nia did not answer.
She did not need to.
At 4:36, Wesley came out of his interview.
His eyes were red.
He looked exhausted rather than angry now.
“Dad.”
Harlan waited.
Wesley rubbed his face.
“They might not let us take her home.”
“I know.”
“Maren is losing it.”
“Good.”
Wesley looked up sharply.
Harlan regretted the word only because Wesley was his son.
Not because it was untrue.
“Harlan.”
“You left her alone.”
“She wanted us to go.”
“Sadie wanted you to leave?”
“The party had been planned for weeks. She knew that. She said she could stay home.”
“She’s eight.”
“I know how old she is.”
“Then why are you telling me what she agreed to as though she were an adult signing a contract?”
Wesley’s face crumpled for half a second.
Then defensiveness returned.
“You don’t understand what it’s been like.”
Harlan froze.
“What has what been like?”
Wesley glanced toward Sadie’s room.
“She has issues.”
“Explain.”
“She panics. She calls constantly. She says she’s sick when she doesn’t want to go to school. She makes things bigger than they are.”
“According to whom?”
“According to us.”
“No. According to Maren?”
Wesley’s eyes hardened.
“Don’t.”
“Did you think she was exaggerating tonight?”
“I didn’t know.”
“She called six times.”
“My phone was in my jacket.”
“Where was your jacket?”
“Inside.”
“And where were you?”
“Outside by the firepit.”
“For hours?”
Wesley looked away.
Harlan spoke quietly.
“Why didn’t you arrange a sitter?”
“She refused.”
“Sadie?”
“Maren.”
There it was.
Small.
Almost accidental.
But it was the first crack.
Harlan said nothing.
Wesley realized what he had revealed.
“She said Sadie was old enough.”
“And you agreed.”
“I didn’t think this would happen.”
Harlan looked through the glass again.
“No one ever does.”
At 5:12, Officer Ortega returned.
He had a clear evidence bag in his hand.
Inside was the handwritten note.
“We photographed the original and collected it with consent from the homeowner.”
Wesley stared at it.
His face went pale.
Ortega turned to him.
“Mr. Mercer, you told the hospital social worker you expected to return before midnight.”
Wesley swallowed.
“Yes.”
The officer lifted the evidence bag.
“The note tells Sadie you would be back tomorrow morning.”
Silence.
Harlan watched his son.
Wesley closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, something had changed.
He looked toward the consultation room where Maren sat.
May you like
Then he whispered:
“I didn’t write that.”
