His lower lip trembled.
“I tried to be good.”
“Oh, Noah.” My voice shattered. “You were good. You are good. None of this was your fault.”
His eyes searched my face.
“Grandma said you weren’t coming.”
“I came as fast as I could.”
“She said you gave me away.”
The words hit like a blade.
I kissed his fingers, careful of the bandages.
“She lied. I would never give you away. Never.”
His gaze drifted toward the door.
“Is he here?”
“Who?”
He swallowed.
“The man with Daddy.”
I stopped breathing.
I pressed the call button.
Within minutes, Harris and Agent Morales were outside the room. A child psychologist joined us before they asked Noah anything. They were gentle. They let him hold his blue blanket, the one recovered from my mother’s house, washed twice but still somehow smelling faintly of smoke.
Noah spoke in fragments.
Kids do that when they are scared. They drop pieces of truth like breadcrumbs, hoping someone brave enough will follow.
