Chapter 3 - The Cold Wake-Up
The following morning, Adrian did not go to his corporate office. Instead, he drove directly through the rain-slicked streets to Cambridge, pulling up outside Rebecca's brick condominium.
When Rebecca opened the front door wearing an oversized cashmere sweater, a delicate, practiced smile touched her lips. “Adrian. Thank God. Owen is resting in the guest room. The pediatrician said he just needs rest and quiet.”
Adrian stepped inside, keeping his coat on. “I need to talk to him, Rebecca.”
Her eyes tightened almost imperceptibly. “He was deeply traumatized, Adrian. Bringing up the fire will only set his recovery back. Let him heal. We should focus on what we’re going to do about the custody arrangement now that... well, now that we know Claire can’t be trusted with him.”
Adrian stared at her. For years after their divorce, he had felt guilty about Rebecca's loneliness. She had weaponized that guilt brilliantly, turning every co-parenting decision into an emotional negotiation. But hearing her casually speak of revoking Claire’s presence made his throat tighten.
“He’s my son,” Adrian said evenly. He walked past her down the carpeted hall and pushed open the bedroom door.
Owen was awake, propped against a mountain of pillows with a sketchbook in his lap. His little throat was wrapped in a soft scarf to soothe the smoke irritation, but his eyes were clear. When he saw Adrian, his face didn't light up with excitement. He looked subdued, almost guarded.
“Hey, buddy,” Adrian said, sitting gently on the edge of the bed.
Owen looked toward the door where Rebecca stood leaning against the frame, watching intently. “Where is Claire?” the boy asked raspy.
Adrian’s breath hitched. “She’s resting at Aunt Lauren’s house, Owen. Her arm got hurt.”
Owen’s eyes instantly pooled with massive tears. “The big stick fell on her.”
Adrian froze. The room seemed to drop ten degrees. “What big stick, Owen?”
Rebecca stepped forward quickly, her voice high and fluttering. “Honey, you were confused. Mommy told you, remember? You were lost in the crowd and Mommy was looking everywhere for you—”
“No!” Owen shouted, his small voice cracking with sudden passion. “You left me! You were taking pictures with the rich ladies and told me to sit by the stairs! And then the black smoke came!”
Adrian stood up slowly, turning his head toward Rebecca. She took a half-step back, her cheeks flushing bright crimson.
“Owen, baby, you’re remembering wrong—”
“Claire came in the smoke!” Owen sobbed, clutching his father’s sleeve with both hands. “She crawled on her knees! She yelled my secret password! And when the burning roof fell down, she covered me like a blanket! The fire burned her dress! She carried me out and gave me to the ambulance man!”
Owen reached under his pillow, pulling out an empty sketchpad. “Where is my fox, Daddy? I gave Rusty to Claire so she wouldn't be scared while the doctor fixed her arm! Where is Claire?”
Adrian felt as if his chest had been struck by a physical blow. The hospital room. Claire’s torn dress. Her shattered arm pinned in plaster. The bag containing the scorched orange fox.
I knew you were stable.
You knew I survived surgery.
No, Adrian. Those are different sentences.
Adrian turned his full gaze onto Rebecca. His voice was terrifyingly low. “You told me she left him.”
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“Adrian, I... I panicked!” Rebecca stammered, raising her hands defensively. “When the alarms went off, I couldn't find him! I thought he went back to her table! I didn't want you to think it was my fault!”
“You let my wife undergo bone reconstruction alone while you lied to my face,” Adrian said, every syllable trembling with lethal rage. “Pack Owen’s things. Right now.”
