Chapter 4
He opened his folder.
“They also found notebooks.”
The way he said notebooks made me afraid before he explained.
“What kind of notebooks?”
“Ellie’s, we believe. Pages of observations about Mason. His feeding times, sleeping times, crying patterns. Some of it ordinary. Some of it…” He paused. “Not ordinary.”
I held Mason’s tiny foot through the blanket.
“What did she write?”
Detective Delaney hesitated.
I hated him for hesitating.
Then he read from a photocopied page.
“Day 17. He watches me too closely. Day 21. Thomas says babies cannot hate, but Thomas does not see what I see. Day 24. He cries when I think about leaving the room, before I move. Day 29. He is not ours in the way people think babies are theirs.”
I closed my eyes.
The room seemed to tilt.
“There’s more,” he said.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
But I did.
Because Mason could not speak.
Someone had to hear it.
Detective Delaney continued.
“Day 36. I tried to show Thomas the mark, but it faded before he looked. Day 41. He smiles at the corner where no one is standing. Day 44. I held him tighter than I meant to. He stopped crying. I think he understood.”
I put my hand over my mouth.
The bruise.
The fingerprints.
She had written it down like an experiment.
Like proof.
“She’s sick,” I whispered.
Detective Delaney’s face remained unreadable, but his voice softened.
“That is one possibility.”
“One possibility?”
“We have to follow evidence, Mrs. Russell. Your son told you not to remove the onesie. He knew the bruise was there.”
The truth struck hard.
Thomas had known.
Maybe he hadn’t done it.
But he had covered it.
The detective leaned forward.
“I need you to be honest with me. Has Thomas ever protected Ellie from consequences before?”
I thought of family gatherings where Ellie spoke for both of them.
I thought of holidays they missed because Ellie was “overwhelmed.”
I thought of Thomas calling me from the driveway one night months ago, saying he and Ellie had fought, then refusing to come inside because she kept texting him.
I thought of how thin he had looked after Mason was born.
“Yes,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
That was the most honest thing I had said all day.
At eight-thirty, a social worker arrived. Her name was Dana Morris. She wore soft gray clothes and had a voice trained to calm storms.
She explained that Child Protective Services was being notified. Mason would remain under medical protection. No parent would be allowed unsupervised access until police and the court made decisions.
“Family placement may be considered,” she said gently, “depending on the investigation.”
I understood what she meant.
Mason might come to me.
My grandson, with his bruised body and exhausted cries, might come home to the same house where I had raised Thomas.
The thought brought both fierce love and unbearable dread.
May you like
Could I protect him from my own son?
Could I look Thomas in the face and say no?
