His eyes dropped toward the copied form in my hand.
“I want Rowan’s records,” I said.
“There are procedures, Dawn.”
“Then get me the form.”
“Dawn, I can’t discuss this without proper paperwork.”
“Fine. Answer one question.” I leaned toward him. “Did Rowan die?”
Doctor Jefferson slowly lowered himself into his chair.
“Rowan was critically ill.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He folded his hands.
“He stabilized after the transfer.”
I gripped the edge of his desk.
“You told me he died.”
“I was told you understood the placement option. Your mother said the private placement had already been discussed with the social worker.”
“By me?”
He looked away.
That answer was enough.
“By my mom,” I said. “Right?”
Watson’s voice broke.
“We buried him.”
Doctor Jefferson swallowed.
“Your mother arranged the memorial. I was told you and Watson understood there would be no viewing.”
“The family?” I asked. “Or her?”
He said nothing.
I stared at him.
“Did you ever ask me, without my mom in the room, if I wanted my son placed with another family?”
Doctor Jefferson lowered his gaze.
“No.”
“Did you ask Watson?”
“No.”
“Then you never confirmed consent,” I said. “You had a grieving woman’s signature and my mother’s version of grief.”
He remained silent.
“I told myself Rowan needed a stable home.”
“He had one,” Watson said. “It was ours.”
I picked up the bracelet.
“I’m filing for every record. Every page. Every note. And then I’m filing complaints wherever I need to.”
Doctor Jefferson nodded.
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. But you will.”
Watson looked at him.
“Where is he?”
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