CHAP 2 —WHAT THE DOCTOR SAW
Dr. Samuel Ellis did not smile when he saw Wren.
He usually did.
Normally he greeted her with some ridiculous joke about frogs or dinosaurs before pretending his stethoscope was frozen.
This time he looked at her once, then at me.
“Julian.”
Something in his voice told me he had already noticed.
He weighed her twice.
Then checked the previous measurements.
“How has her appetite been?”
I answered carefully.
“I don't know.”
Corinne had handled breakfast most mornings.
I owned a hardware and restoration supply company in Thistlewood Hollow. Three mornings a week I left before seven.
I had thought I was providing stability.
Now every hour outside that house felt like evidence against me.
Dr. Ellis crouched in front of Wren.
“Sweetheart, when you're hungry at home, can you get something to eat?”
Wren stared at her shoes.
“Sometimes.”
“When can't you?”
She looked at me.
I nodded.
“The door gets locked.”
Dr. Ellis didn't react visibly.
“Which door?”
“The food door.”
“The pantry?”
She nodded.
“Who locks it?”
Wren whispered.
“Corinne.”
A nurse entered.
Dr. Ellis asked her to take Desmond to another room for a few minutes.
He then turned toward me.
“Wren is underweight compared with her previous growth curve. I need bloodwork.”
My throat tightened.
“How bad?”
“I don't want to speculate until I have results.”
Then he added quietly:
“But this isn't something I would dismiss.”
He documented everything.
Weight decline.
Possible dehydration.
Wren's statements.
My report.
The locked pantry.
Then he said the words I had expected and still wasn't prepared to hear.
“I am required to report suspected child neglect.”
“I understand.”
He studied me.
“Are you taking her back to that environment?”
“No.”
“Where will you stay?”
“My sister Mara has a guesthouse.”
“Good.”
I hesitated.
“Corinne is my wife.”
“I know.”
“And Desmond is her biological son.”
“I know.”
“Can he stay with me?”
Dr. Ellis leaned back.
“That will depend on what authorities determine. But if he says he feels unsafe, tell them that.”
An hour later, Wren ate two pieces of toast in the examination room.
Slowly.
Carefully.
She broke one piece in half and wrapped it in a napkin.
I pretended not to notice at first.
Then I asked:
“Saving that?”
She froze.
“For later.”
“There'll be more later.”
Her eyes lifted toward mine.
“Really?”
I nearly lost control then.
Not anger.
Grief.
“Yes.”
She studied my face like she was looking for a trick.
“Even if I ask?”
“Especially if you ask.”
Across the room, Desmond turned away.
He wiped his face with his sleeve.
That afternoon, a county child welfare investigator named Lena Ortiz met us at Mara's guesthouse.
She spoke to the children separately.
Then to me.
She asked questions I hated answering.
How long had I been married to Corinne?
Eighteen months.
How long had she been caring for Wren?
About a year.
Had I noticed changes?
Wren eating quickly.
Occasional stomachaches.
Food wrappers beneath her pillow once.
Corinne had told me Wren was acting out.
I had believed her.
Every answer made me feel smaller.
Ortiz noticed.
“Mr. Mercer, guilt doesn't help us establish facts.”
“I should have known.”
“Perhaps.”
I looked at her.
She didn't soften the word.
I respected her for that.
“But right now,” she continued, “your responsibility is to respond appropriately to what you know now.”
So I gave her everything.
The notebook.
Photos of the pantry lock.
The old phone.
Desmond's recording.
We listened together.
Corinne's voice filled the small room.
“If Dr. Ellis asks, you tell him you're not hungry in the mornings.”
Wren's tiny voice:
“But I am.”
“You're being dramatic.”
“My tummy hurts.”
“You're fine.”
Then Corinne lowered her voice.
“And if you tell your father I locked the pantry, he's going to think you're lying again.”
A pause.
Wren whispered:
“Will he send me away?”
Corinne answered:
“If you keep causing problems, maybe.”
I couldn't listen to the rest.
Ortiz could.
When it ended, she sat in silence.
Then she asked Desmond where he had been standing.
“In the hallway.”
“Did your mother know you recorded this?”
“No.”
“Why did you?”
He stared at the carpet.
“Because Wren started saying sorry before she asked for water.”
Ortiz's jaw tightened.
Late that evening, Corinne sent me seventeen messages.
The first were angry.
YOU ARE KIDNAPPING MY SON.
Then defensive.
YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW DIFFICULT WREN HAS BEEN.
Then frightened.
PLEASE COME HOME SO WE CAN TALK.
Then threatening.
MY LAWYER SAYS YOU ARE MAKING A HUGE MISTAKE.
I ignored all of them.
At 10:13 p.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Mr. Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“This is Evelyn Calder.”
I knew the name.
Probate attorney.
Elise's attorney.
My late wife's estate.
“I apologize for calling so late,” she said, “but I heard there may be a situation involving Wren.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Your sister contacted me.”
I glanced toward Mara's house across the garden.
“What does Elise's estate have to do with this?”
A pause.
“Possibly everything.”
I stood.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Mercer, do you remember the Birchgate trust?”
“Only generally.”
“You need to understand it now.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
Then she said:
“Because legally, the house on Birchgate Lane isn't yours.”
I stared through the window at the darkness.
“It belonged to Elise.”
“No.”
Calder's voice was careful.
“It belongs to Wren.”
I said nothing.
“And if Corinne knew the terms of that trust,” Calder continued, “then what happened to your daughter may not have been only about control.”
I gripped the phone.
“What else could it have been about?”
May you like
“Money.”
And for the second time that day, I realized I didn't actually know what had been happening inside my own home.
