Chapter 6 - What Sharon Knew
My attorney's name was Paula Reyes. She called me back within the hour with three things ready to file: a motion to vacate the emergency order, a formal complaint to the state judicial oversight board, and a question I wasn't expecting.
"The grandmother," she said. "Sharon. How much does she know?"
"She was there when Dylan took him. She changed his clothes and hid them in her garbage."
"And then she came to you."
"She didn't come to me. I found the jacket."
"But she didn't stop you from finding it." A beat. "That matters. I need to talk to her. Today, if you can arrange it."
I dropped Caleb at Denise's house — Denise, who had walked that ditch line with a flashlight for three nights, and who put both hands over her mouth and cried when he came through her front door.
Then I drove back to Larkspur Lane.
Sharon opened the door before I knocked. She'd been watching the street for me.
"Come in," she said.
The house smelled the way it always had — coffee and the faint cedar of old furniture. I had sat at that kitchen table a hundred times. I sat down at it again. She lowered herself into the chair across from me.
"My attorney needs a statement from you," I said.
"I know." She folded her hands on the table. "I've been waiting for you to come back."
"Why didn't you call me that night, Sharon? After he drove off with my son — why didn't you pick up the phone?"
She looked down at her hands. "He showed me the order on his phone. Just the top of it. Just enough that it looked real. He said if I got in the way, I'd lose every right to ever see Caleb again. And that I could be charged." Her voice thinned out. "I believed him. I was a coward, and I was scared."
"You were scared of losing visits with Caleb," I said. "So you stayed quiet while I lost him completely."
She didn't argue. She just nodded. "I know what I did. I've known it every single day since."
"The clothes. Why did you keep them?"
She was quiet a moment. "Because I couldn't throw them out. They were his. That patch you sewed on — I watched you do it, right here, at this table, the Christmas before last. He wouldn't stand still." Her lips pressed together. "I kept telling myself I'd figure out what to do with them. I never did."
"And then you put them in the bin."
"Dylan called me two days ago. He said you'd started walking the route again. He told me to get rid of anything that could tie him to this house." Her eyes came up to mine. "I put the bag in the bin. But I didn't push the lid down all the way."
The kitchen was very still.
"You left it open," I said.
"I left it open."
I looked at her for a long time.
"Paula is going to want everything. The order he showed you, the woman in the driveway, the threats, the phone call two days ago telling you to destroy evidence. All of it."
Sharon's chin came up a little. "I'll tell her every word," she said. "Whatever it takes."
"It might mean testifying against your own son."
"He's my son." She said it plainly, no drama in it. "But Caleb is my grandson. And what Dylan did to that boy — and to you — I have to live with my part in it for the rest of my life. I'm not going to make it worse by keeping my mouth shut now."
She reached across the table and put her hand over mine. I didn't pull it back.
"I'm sorry, Erin. I am so sorry."
I didn't tell her it was all right. It wasn't all right. But I left my hand where it was.
My phone buzzed. Paula.
"Motion's filed," she said. "And it doesn't go to Judge Brandt for review. The clerk confirmed it twenty minutes ago — different judge."
"Good."
"One more thing. Alyssa Rourke has a record. Three years ago, in another state. A custody interference case — and she was the one doing the interfering. It settled, but the file exists."
I stood up from Sharon's table. "Can you use it?"
"I can use it to show a pattern. Put it next to Sharon's statement and Maureen Gable's affidavit, and we can argue the original order was obtained through fraud and a hidden family connection." A pause. "Erin, I think we get Caleb home for good by the end of the week."
I walked to Sharon's front window and looked out at the street — the same six blocks my son had walked, the same route I'd worn a path into.
"Make it happen," I said.
Behind me, Sharon bowed her head and pressed both palms flat on the table, like she was bracing against something.
May you like
Out on the street, a car slowed near the corner. Silver sedan. It didn't stop. But it didn't move on right away either.
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