Chapter 14 - The Room Where Children Could SpeakDr. Hannah Reed's office did not look like a doctor's office.
There were no examination tables.
No white coats.
No frightening instruments.
Instead, one wall was painted light blue, a shelf held puzzles and stuffed animals, and a wooden train ran along a miniature track beneath the window.
Leo stopped at the doorway.
“Do I have to get a shot?”
Dr. Reed smiled.
“No shots here.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She was a child psychologist with experience helping children after frightening events.
Adrian had selected her after consulting Leo's pediatrician.
He was determined not to turn the appointment into an interrogation.
Dr. Reed explained that the initial goal was to understand Leo's distress and support him, not to establish legal facts through repeated questioning.
Adrian listened carefully.
In the waiting room, he sat beside his son.
“Would you like me to come in with you?”
Leo considered.
“At first.”
“Okay.”
Dr. Reed welcomed them into the playroom.
She invited Leo to choose something from the shelf.
He selected a wooden airplane.
“Nice choice,” she said.
“My daddy has lots of airplanes.”
“So I've heard.”
Leo pushed the toy gently across the table.
After some time discussing school and dinosaurs, Dr. Reed asked about things that had been worrying him.
Leo looked toward Adrian.
His father remained silent.
Dr. Reed noticed.
“Leo, you don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to tell. We're going to make sure this feels safe.”
The boy moved the airplane closer.
“I don't like loud engines anymore.”
“That sounds frightening.”
“They can pull things.”
Dr. Reed nodded.
“What helps when you remember that sound?”
Leo thought.
“Rocket.”
“Your dinosaur?”
He nodded.
“And Daddy.”
Adrian felt tears sting his eyes.
Dr. Reed asked whether Leo wanted to spend some time talking with her alone.
After a moment, he agreed.
Adrian stepped outside.
For the next half hour, he stared at a framed painting in the waiting room.
He had sat through hostile negotiations involving tens of millions of dollars without feeling this helpless.
He could not negotiate away his son's fear.
He could not purchase a better memory.
He could only hope Leo felt safe enough to speak.
When Dr. Reed invited him back, she did not repeat everything Leo had said.
Instead, she explained the immediate priorities.
“He is experiencing anxiety, disrupted sleep, and fear related to the hangar incident and subsequent family conflict.”
Adrian nodded.
“Can you tell whether he's telling the truth about Celeste?”
Dr. Reed shook her head.
“My clinical role is not to determine guilt. He's given consistent spontaneous descriptions to you, but a formal fact-finding process, if needed, should be handled separately by appropriately trained professionals.”
Adrian looked ashamed.
“I understand.”
She continued.
“The important thing at home is that Leo should not feel responsible for protecting adults from consequences.”
The phrase sounded painfully familiar.
Nora's letter.
Dr. Reed asked Leo to join them on the carpet.
She placed three wooden figures beside the toy airplane.
“Can we talk about something called responsibility?”
Leo nodded.
“Sometimes children do things without realizing they're dangerous. Adults are supposed to help them understand.”
“Like lines?” Leo asked.
“Yes. Like safety lines.”
Dr. Reed placed a thin yellow ribbon across the carpet.
Leo's breathing changed.
Adrian noticed immediately.
Dr. Reed paused.
“We don't have to use that.”
Leo stared at the ribbon.
Then he reached forward and moved the wooden airplane farther away.
“It goes on that side,” he said.
“Okay.”
“And people stay here.”
He placed the smallest figure behind the ribbon.
Adrian felt his throat tighten.
“That's right, buddy.”
Leo looked up.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Are you still mad at Graham?”
Adrian answered immediately.
“No.”
“Did you tell him?”
“I apologized.”
Leo considered.
“Did he say it's okay?”
Adrian looked down.
“No. And he doesn't have to.”
“Why?”
“Because when you hurt someone, saying sorry doesn't automatically make the hurt disappear.”
Leo studied his father carefully.
“Like when I broke Mommy Nora's little blue bowl?”
Adrian smiled sadly.
“Do you remember that?”
“A little.”
“She wasn't angry with you.”
“I thought she was.”
“She was worried you might have cut yourself.”
Leo looked at the ribbon again.
“Graham was worried I'd get hurt.”
“Yes.”
The boy nodded.
Dr. Reed let the moment settle.
Then she offered to help Leo develop simple ways to manage his fear when memories returned.
Outside the office, Adrian received a call from Evelyn.
“I've obtained an order preserving the trust's records and independent access to the company's sale documents through the agreed review process,” she said.
“Good.”
“There's something else.”
Adrian moved away from Leo.
“What?”
“The financial investigators found evidence suggesting the transition fee could benefit Celeste personally.”
He looked back through the glass.
Leo was showing Dr. Reed how Rocket could rescue a toy airplane.
“Do we have proof?”
“Enough to ask difficult questions. Not enough to conclude everything yet.”
Adrian nodded.
“What do you need from me?”
“Your cooperation. Full disclosure of any personal authorizations. And an agreement not to approve the transaction while the investigation continues.”
“You have it.”
Evelyn hesitated.
“Adrian, there's something I have to ask.”
“What?”
“Has Celeste ever asked you to transfer any of Leo's trust shares into an account she controlled?”
He stopped walking.
“Not directly.”
“Think carefully.”
He remembered an estate-planning conversation from the previous winter.
Celeste had suggested consolidating family investments under a single management company.
At the time, he dismissed the idea as unnecessary administrative complexity.
Now he remembered her frustration.
“She wanted to combine our holdings,” he said.
“Did you sign anything?”
“I don't think so.”
“Check.”
The word filled him with dread.
That evening, Adrian searched his archived correspondence.
He found the proposal.
It was titled:
Mercer Family Wealth Simplification Plan.
Beneath the signature line were the words:
Adrian Mercer — Approved in Principle.
May you like
And attached to the email was a scanned page containing what appeared to be his signature.
He had no memory of signing it.
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