Chapter 7: Cara
Marcus found her in Fort Worth.
It took him four days.
He called on a Saturday morning while Ryan was at the grocery store and I was sitting on the back porch with Noah in my lap, watching the neighbor's dog run circles in the yard next door.
"Her name is Cara Simmons now," Marcus said.
"Remarried.
Two kids, Daniel and a daughter.
She's a registered nurse.
She remembered Ryan immediately."
"Will she talk to us?"
"She'll talk to you.
Not Ryan.
Not yet." A pause.
"She was very clear about that."
"I understand."
"She's available Tuesday afternoon.
I'll send you the address."
I called Ryan on his way home from the store.
He pulled into the driveway and sat in the car for a long moment after I finished talking.
"She doesn't want to see me," he said.
"Not yet."
"That's fair." His voice was careful.
Even.
"What do you need from me for Tuesday?"
"Nothing.
I'll go alone."
Cara lived in a quiet neighborhood east of Fort Worth — a brick house with a small porch and a bicycle locked to the railing.
She answered the door before I knocked, which told me she'd been watching for me.
She was around my age.
Dark hair pulled back.
Steady eyes that had seen things and decided not to be surprised by them anymore.
"Sarah," she said.
"Thank you for seeing me."
She held the door open.
We sat at her kitchen table.
She made coffee without asking if I wanted any.
Daniel was at school.
Her daughter was at her mother-in-law's.
The house was quiet.
"How old is your son?" she asked.
"Three months."
She nodded slowly.
"Daniel was six weeks."
"I know.
I read the report."
"Ryan kept it." It wasn't a question.
"In a locked drawer."
She wrapped both hands around her mug.
"I used to wonder if he kept it because he felt guilty or because he wanted to forget it existed."
"I think both," I said.
"I think he's been living with it for four years and not knowing what to do with it."
She looked at me for a moment.
"What do you need from me?"
"Linda has filed for grandparent visitation.
She's claiming I'm unstable and dangerous.
She has signed statements from neighbors and family members."
Cara's expression didn't change.
"Of course she does."
"If you're willing to provide a statement about what happened with Daniel — what you found, what the investigation showed, what Linda said to you during that time — it would change the weight of the case."
"I know what it would do." She set her mug down.
"I've thought about this for four years.
Every time I looked at that report.
Every time Daniel had a nightmare and I sat with him in the dark and thought about those six weeks." She paused.
"I thought about calling Ryan.
About telling him that his mother was still out there, near other babies.
But I didn't know how to do it without blowing up my own life again."
"I'm not asking you to blow anything up.
Marcus Webb will handle—"
"I know Marcus.
He was Ryan's lawyer during the custody case." She looked at me steadily.
"He wasn't unkind.
But he was Ryan's lawyer.
Not mine."
"He's mine now," I said.
"And I have a three-month-old son."
Cara was quiet for a long moment.
"Daniel has nightmares about a woman with cold hands," she said.
"He can't describe her face.
He was too young.
But he wakes up crying and he can't tell me why." She looked at the table.
"He's four years old and he wakes up crying and he can't tell me why."
I didn't say anything.
She stood up and walked to the kitchen counter.
Opened a drawer.
Pulled out a manila envelope — thicker than the one in Ryan's drawer, worn at the corners from being handled many times.
She set it in front of me.
"My own copies," she said.
"Photographs.
The original CPS report.
The hospital record from the day I took Daniel to the pediatrician afterward.
And three voicemails Linda left me after the investigation.
I kept them all." She sat back down.
"I'll give a statement.
I'll appear in court if Marcus needs me to.
But I want one thing."
"Name it."
"Ryan writes a letter to Daniel.
Not now — when Daniel is old enough to understand it.
Twelve, maybe.
Thirteen.
Something that tells him the truth about what happened and that his father is sorry." She met my eyes.
"Not an excuse.
Not an explanation.
Just sorry."
My throat tightened.
"I'll make sure he does."
She nodded once.
"Then let's take her down," Cara said quietly.
I picked up the envelope.
Outside, a school bus turned the corner at the end of the street.
Cara stood up and looked out the window.
"That's his bus," she said.
I stood too.
"I'll go."
"No." She turned.
"Stay.
I want him to see that there are women who fight for their children." She almost smiled.
"He needs to know that."
The front door opened and a small boy with dark hair and Ryan's exact jawline walked into the kitchen carrying a dinosaur backpack.
He stopped when he saw me.
"Daniel," Cara said, "this is Sarah.
She's a friend."
He looked at me with serious, careful eyes.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I said.
He set his backpack on the floor and went to the refrigerator for juice, already moving on to the next thing the way four-year-olds do.
I looked at Cara.
She was already looking at me.
May you like
Neither of us said anything.
We didn't need to.
