Chapter 8 - THE DOCTOR WHO NEVER MET HIM
The psychological evaluation listed a doctor named Howard Wynn.
It described Noah as oppositional, manipulative, prone to false reports of physical symptoms, and at risk of fabricating allegations against caregivers to obtain attention.
The language was so perfectly suited to Diane’s defense that even Detective Ruiz found it suspicious.
The document was dated four months earlier.
It claimed Noah had been evaluated in three sessions.
Noah had never heard the name Howard Wynn.
Neither had I.
Marissa told me not to search for the doctor online and contact him directly.
She said investigators were already verifying the document.
I listened.
For once, I did exactly what I was told.
I focused on Noah’s immediate needs.
He needed rest.
He needed food.
He needed a shower arranged around a cast.
He needed school notified.
He needed clothes because most of his things were still at Diane’s house.
He needed to know where the bathroom was without asking permission.
That last part became obvious the first night.
At 2:10 a.m., I woke to a soft knocking on my bedroom door.
“Noah?”
“Can I use the bathroom?”
I sat up.
For a second I thought he was asking for help transferring with the crutches.
Then I realized he was literally asking whether he was allowed to go.
“You never have to ask me permission to use the bathroom.”
He stood in the hallway balancing carefully on the crutches.
“Oh.”
“Do you need help?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He did not move.
“What?”
“What if it’s nighttime?”
“You still don’t need permission.”
“What if I already went?”
“You can go again.”
He stared at me.
I felt anger rise so fast I had to consciously keep it out of my voice.
“Whenever you need to use the bathroom, go.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
Then he looked at the crutches.
“Can I keep these in my room?”
“Yes.”
“Even when I’m sleeping?”
“Yes.”
He went to the bathroom.
I sat awake until he returned to his room.
Then I went to the kitchen and cried quietly because there was nowhere else for the anger to go.
The next morning, Detective Ruiz called.
They had verified Dr. Howard Wynn’s license.
He was a real psychologist.
He was also seventy-two years old, retired, and living in Arizona.
He had never practiced in our state.
He had never evaluated Noah.
His office letterhead, however, was available online through an old archived website.
The signature on the report appeared to have been copied from a publicly filed professional article.
I sat at the kitchen table listening to Ruiz explain it.
Noah was in the living room building a model car from a kit I had bought him years earlier and forgotten in a closet.
“So it’s forged.”
“We have strong reason to believe so.”
“Strong reason?”
“Emily.”
“I know.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“You have to use careful words.”
“Exactly.”
“What else was in the trunk?”
“A number of financial records, school records, handwritten materials, and electronic devices.”
“The old phone?”
“Yes.”
My heart jumped.
“Can you tell if she made the fake texts with it?”
“Not yet.”
“What about the box Noah saw?”
“We believe one of the bins matches his description.”
“What was inside?”
Ruiz paused.
“Documents involving both of you.”
“What kind?”
“I can’t go through everything before it has been fully inventoried.”
I stood and walked to the window.
“Is there something I need to know before the hearing?”
“Yes.”
Her tone changed.
I stopped.
“What?”
“There are copies of letters addressed to you.”
“From who?”
“Several sources.”
“What does that mean?”
“School staff, the orthopedic clinic, and the county family services office.”
I felt a chill.
“I never received them.”
“That may be significant.”
“Were they opened?”
“Some were.”
“Why would letters to me be at her house?”
“Did you ever use that address as your mailing address?”
“Years ago, when I was in school.”
“Did you file forwarding?”
“Yes.”
“Did Ms. Mercer ever say mail was still arriving there?”
“Sometimes junk.”
I looked toward Noah.
He was concentrating on fitting two tiny plastic pieces together.
“What did the letters say?”
Ruiz hesitated again.
“One from Noah’s school requested a conference regarding repeated absences.”
My head snapped up.
“Absences?”
“Seventeen days this semester.”
I stared at the wall.
Diane had told me he had perfect attendance except for the fracture.
“What else?”
“Another letter appears to be from the school counselor.”
“What about?”
“A concern Noah expressed about being punished for contacting you.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“He told the school?”
“It appears he told the counselor something.”
“Then why didn’t anyone call me?”
“The letter may have been their attempt to do exactly that.”
I could not speak.
Ruiz continued gently.
“There is also a certified-mail envelope from family services.”
“About the guardianship?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“The court needed confirmation of your current address and contact information because the extension petition listed you as unreachable.”
I laughed once because the alternative was screaming.
“She told them I was unreachable, then kept their letter to me.”
“That appears possible.”
“Did she sign for it?”
“We’re checking.”
I sat down again.
“Anything else?”
“There is one more thing.”
The way she said it made me brace myself.
“The bin contained a notebook.”
“What notebook?”
“Black cover, spiral bound.”
I had seen dozens of notebooks at Diane’s house.
“What’s in it?”
“Dates, amounts, initials, and brief notes.”
“Money?”
“We think so.”
“Related to Noah’s account?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I closed my eyes.
The hearing was scheduled for the following afternoon.
Less than thirty-six hours away.
Ruiz told me they would provide relevant findings to child services and the county attorney as permitted.
Then she asked me to preserve all my messages with Diane and all banking records related to money I had sent for Noah.
“I already started.”
“Good.”
After we hung up, I sat at the table staring at the phone.
Noah called from the living room.
“Emily?”
“Yeah?”
“Is this piece supposed to look crooked?”
I walked in.
He held up the model’s front axle.
“It looks upside down.”
He examined it.
“Oh.”
We fixed it together.
For twenty minutes, nothing was about courts, police, casts, or forged paperwork.
It was just a model car.
Then the intercom buzzed.
I froze.
Noah froze too.
Nobody was supposed to visit.
I went to the apartment door without opening it.
The building intercom buzzed again.
I pressed the speaker.
“Who is it?”
Grandma Ruth answered.
“It’s me.”
Noah looked toward the door.
My hand tightened around the intercom button.
“Grandma, now is not a good time.”
“I need to see Noah.”
“No.”
“He is my grandson.”
“Not today.”
“He called me.”
I turned toward Noah.
His face went pale.
“I didn’t,” he whispered.
Grandma continued through the speaker.
“He is frightened of you.”
I felt the old reflex to defend myself.
I ignored it.
“Leave.”
“Emily, open this door.”
“No.”
Then another voice came faintly through the intercom behind hers.
Aunt Diane.
“Tell her I just want my things.”
Noah dropped the model car piece.
I stepped away from the door.
The emergency placement order prohibited Diane from unsupervised contact with Noah.
She knew that.
Grandma knew that.
They had come anyway.
I called Marissa first.
Then the police.
The buzzer started again.
And again.
And again.
Then my phone rang from an unknown number.
I did not answer.
A voicemail appeared seconds later.
I played it on speaker without thinking.
Diane’s voice filled the room.
“You can keep pretending you’re rescuing him, Emily.”
Noah stared at the phone.
“But tomorrow the judge is going to see what he really is.”
The message ended.
Noah’s face went completely blank.
Then he whispered the sentence that made me realize Diane had threatened him with the hearing long before I ever knew one existed.
May you like
“She said that exact thing before.”
