Chapter 10: What the Neighbor Saw
Her name was Roberta Finch.
She lived in the yellow house on the corner of Aldermoor Street, two blocks from Sophie's school.
I had never spoken to her.
I wasn't sure I had ever noticed her.
According to the affidavit Patricia read to me over the phone, Roberta Finch had observed, on multiple occasions, a child being dropped off at school by a man she did not recognize, while the child's mother was absent.
She had observed the child appearing, in her words, *distressed and unsupervised* on at least two afternoons.
She had observed what she described as an *irregular household schedule* that concerned her as a neighbor and a community member.
"That's Nathan," I said.
"Dropping Sophie at school.
On the mornings I have early shifts."
"I assumed as much," Patricia said.
"She doesn't know Nathan.
She's never met him.
He's Sophie's stepfather."
"I know.
And we can establish that clearly." A pause.
"But I want you to understand what they're doing.
They're not building a case with facts.
They're building a case with impressions.
Roberta Finch's affidavit isn't strong.
But it creates a picture — a stranger dropping off a child, a mother who isn't there, an irregular schedule.
Presented to the right judge on the right day, it plants a seed."
"How did they find her?"
"Garrett, almost certainly.
He was watching the school.
He would have spoken to neighbors."
I thought about Paul Garrett standing on Aldermoor Street, knocking on doors, asking questions about my daughter.
"Can we challenge the affidavit?"
"We can and we will.
I want you to gather anyone who knows your household.
Teachers, Sophie's pediatrician, neighbors who actually know you.
Character witnesses who can speak to Sophie's stability and wellbeing." Patricia paused.
"And I want to talk to Roberta Finch myself."
"Why?"
"Because someone who was willing to sign an affidavit based on what she thinks she saw may be willing to reconsider when she understands what she actually signed onto." A pause.
"Or she may not.
But I want to know which one she is."
I hung up and sat at the kitchen table for a long time.
Then I did something I hadn't done in years.
I called my mother.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Diane." Her voice was warm.
"I was just thinking about you."
"Mom." My voice broke on the word, just slightly.
"I need to tell you something."
I told her everything.
All of it.
Creighton, the petition, the investigator, the affidavit, the six weeks.
She didn't interrupt.
She didn't ask questions until I was finished.
When I was done, she was quiet for a moment.
Then she said: "Tell me what you need."
"I need a character witness," I said.
"Someone who has known Sophie since before she was born."
"I'll be there Thursday," she said.
"I'll take the early flight."
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
"Mom—"
"Thursday," she said firmly.
"Set a place at the table."
After I hung up, I sat for another moment.
Then I heard the front door open and Sophie's backpack hit the floor in the hallway with its usual thud.
"Mom?
Something smells good."
"Leftover pasta," I called back.
"It's in the fridge."
She appeared in the kitchen doorway, still in her coat, her hair slightly windblown.
"Can I have it cold?"
"You can have it however you want it."
She grinned and went to the fridge.
May you like
I watched her move through the kitchen — easy, comfortable, completely unaware.
I had six weeks to make sure she stayed that way.
