Chapter 1 - The Note Inside the Dinosaur
My name is Rosalind Mercer.
I was thirty-four years old when I came home from buying groceries and discovered that my sister-in-law had packed most of my five-year-old son’s bedroom into cardboard boxes.
It was a Thursday afternoon.
Nothing about it was supposed to matter.
Milk.
Apples.
Chicken.
Cereal Sawyer claimed he hated until I bought a different brand.
I had been gone forty-seven minutes.
My husband Caleb was out of state for work.
His older sister Imogen had been staying with us temporarily with her seven-year-old son, Mason.
Three weeks.
That was the agreement.
Imogen’s condo had developed major water damage after a pipe burst inside the building above hers.
The insurance company had placed her in a hotel initially.
She hated the hotel.
Mason hated it more.
So Caleb offered our guest room.
We had space.
Or I thought we did.
Our house outside Boston had four bedrooms.
Ours.
Sawyer’s.
Guest room.
Caleb’s small office that technically qualified as a bedroom but barely.
There was no reason for anyone to touch Sawyer’s room.
I came through the kitchen door with two grocery bags against my hip.
The house felt too quiet.
Mason usually had cartoons playing.
Sawyer usually sounded like demolition equipment with opinions.
Then I heard crying upstairs.
I dropped one grocery bag on the counter.
“Sad dinosaur?” I called.
No answer.
That was wrong.
Sawyer answered almost everything.
Even questions not directed at him.
I climbed the stairs.
His bedroom door stood open.
The first thing I noticed was the shelves.
Empty.
Books gone.
Toy bins gone.
His little collection of plastic dinosaurs gone.
The framed drawing Caleb had hung above the dresser was missing.
Cardboard boxes lined the wall.
Then I saw my son.
Sawyer stood beside his bed.
Dinosaur T-shirt.
Shorts.
Socks.
Sneakers.
He held his stuffed green triceratops against his chest.
Imogen stood in front of him.
Thirty-seven.
Perfect blouse.
Fitted trousers.
Earrings.
Bracelet.
Heels inside my house despite the fact that I had asked everyone to leave shoes by the mudroom because Sawyer liked lying on floors.
Mason stood near the doorway.
Polo shirt.
Shorts.
Silent.
He was looking down.
Sawyer reached toward one of the boxes.
His stuffed dinosaur slipped slightly from one arm.
Imogen grabbed the toy first.
Sawyer reached for it.
“Give him back.”
Imogen looked at him.
Then slapped him.
Hard.
Across the face.
Sawyer’s head snapped sideways.
The stuffed dinosaur flew from his hands.
He lost balance.
Fell beside the stripped shelves.
My grocery bag hit the floor.
A jar rolled beneath the hallway table.
“SAWYER!”
Imogen turned.
Her face changed.
Not guilt.
Surprise.
I ran into the room.
Sawyer had one hand against his cheek.
His eyes were enormous.
I lifted him.
He wrapped both arms around my neck.
“Mom.”
“I’m here.”
His cheek reddened beneath my hand.
“Did you hit your head?”
He shook it.
“Where hurts?”
“Face.”
I looked at Imogen.
“What did you do?”
She folded her arms.
“He was throwing a tantrum.”
Sawyer cried harder.
Then:
“Mom… she put all my things in boxes.”
I looked around.
Every box had labels.
BOOKS.
CLOTHES.
TOYS.
SAWYER STORAGE.
Storage.
In his own bedroom.
Imogen gestured toward them.
“Mason needs the room.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He deserves the room.”
Mason flinched.
Imogen continued:
“Your little mistake can sleep somewhere else.”
Sawyer stopped crying for one second.
Children know when an insult means more than they understand.
I handed him toward the bed.
“Sit right there.”
He grabbed my blouse.
“No.”
So I kept one arm around him.
Then I saw another box.
Not Sawyer’s.
Imogen’s.
Open near the guest-room door.
Clothes.
Expensive dresses.
Shoes.
I moved before thinking.
Grabbed it.
Imogen said:
“Rosalind, don’t—”
I dumped the entire box over her.
Dresses fell across her head and shoulders.
Two shoes struck the carpet.
A garment bag tangled around one arm.
Imogen stepped backward.
Caught her heel on the overturned box.
Fell heavily onto the carpet.
Mason gasped.
Sawyer hid his face against my shoulder.
That should have stopped me sooner.
Imogen pushed the clothes away.
Rose onto one knee.
Humiliated.
Furious.
“You’re insane.”
“You hit my son.”
“He was being impossible.”
“You slapped a five-year-old.”
Imogen stood.
One hand braced against the wall.
Then she said it.
“Your husband already agreed Sawyer has to go.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Caleb agreed.”
“No.”
“He did.”
“To what?”
“That Mason needs this room.”
“This is Sawyer’s room.”
“Not anymore.”
Sawyer slid out of my arms.
He went toward the stuffed dinosaur on the floor.
Picked it up.
The seam across its belly had torn wider when it fell.
Something white slipped through.
A folded piece of paper.
Sawyer looked at it.
“Dad paper.”
I took it.
My fingers shook.
Opened it.
Caleb’s handwriting.
Not printed.
Not copied.
His.
The top line:
Ros—
Then:
If I don’t get a chance to explain before I leave, please do not let Imogen be alone with Sawyer. Something is wrong. I heard what she said to him tonight. I’ll tell you everything when I land.
Below it, underlined twice:
Never leave Sawyer alone with Imogen.
I slowly raised my eyes.
Imogen had stopped breathing normally.
I held up the note.
“Then why did he write, ‘Never leave Sawyer alone with Imogen’?”
May you like
Her expression collapsed.
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