Chapter 3: The Man at the Door
"I just want to see my son.
You have no right to keep him from me."
I stood very still.
Noah's grip on my wrist tightened.
He was pressing his face into my side now, and I could feel him shaking through my shirt.
"One moment," I called toward the door.
I crouched down to Noah's level.
His eyes were squeezed shut.
"Hey," I said softly.
"Look at me."
He opened his eyes.
They were wet.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said.
"And neither are you.
Not tonight.
Not without me knowing exactly who that man is.
Okay?"
Noah stared at me for a long moment.
Then he gave the smallest nod I had ever seen.
I stood up and moved toward the door, keeping myself between Noah and whatever was on the other side.
I didn't open it.
I left the chain on.
"I need your name," I said through the gap.
"Raymond Cole." The voice was flat.
Practiced.
"Noah's biological father.
And I have paperwork."
"The agency told me Noah had no living relatives.
No father on record."
"The agency was wrong." A pause.
"Or they lied to you.
One of the two."
I looked back at Noah.
He had backed against the far wall, both arms wrapped around himself.
"Mr.
Cole," I said, "it's late.
I'm not opening this door tonight.
If you have legitimate paperwork, you can contact the adoption agency in the morning."
"I've been contacting the agency for eight months." His voice shifted.
Still controlled, but something underneath it now.
"They keep losing my calls.
Losing my letters.
Funny how that works."
"Then contact a lawyer."
"I have one." Another pause.
"She's already filed."
My stomach dropped.
I kept my voice level.
"Then you'll hear from my attorney."
"Mr.—" He stopped.
"I don't even know your name."
"No," I said.
"You don't."
I stepped back from the door.
I didn't hear him move for a long moment.
Then footsteps.
Slow ones, going down the porch steps.
I waited until I heard a car door close before I turned around.
Noah was still against the wall.
He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't fully read — part fear, part something else.
Something that looked almost like disbelief.
"He's gone," I said.
Noah didn't move.
I walked to the kitchen, filled a glass of water, and brought it to him.
He took it with both hands.
"You don't have to talk," I said.
"Not tonight.
Not until you're ready."
I sat down on the floor with my back against the wall, right next to him.
After a moment, Noah slid down the wall and sat beside me.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Later, after he was asleep — light on, door cracked, the way he needed it — I sat at the kitchen table with my phone and called the only number I had for the agency.
Voicemail.
I left a message.
Calm.
Clear.
Every word of it.
May you like
Then I opened my laptop and searched Raymond Cole.
What came up made me sit back in my chair.
