“Since when does he do this?” Jonathan pressed. “They told me he couldn’t focus. That he couldn’t laugh.”
Emily looked at Noah, tenderness overtaking fear. “Always, sir. Since I arrived. Six months. He isn’t impaired. He’s sad. And… he’s scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Not what,” she whispered. “Who.”
Jonathan remembered the unexplained bruises, the crying that stopped when Victoria entered, her constant insistence on sedation. Her hand always resting on Noah’s neck during appointments—too precise.
“Show me,” Jonathan said quietly. “Please.”
Emily removed her gloves and turned to Noah. “Come on, champ. The plane is taking off.”
She hummed softly and opened her arms. Noah smiled—truly smiled. He pushed himself up, crawled forward, then glanced at his father and formed shaky syllables.
“A… plane.”
Jonathan covered his mouth. Non-verbal, the reports said. Irreversible. And here was his son asking to play.
Then a red sports car screeched into the driveway. Noah’s body stiffened instantly, his expression emptying. Jonathan understood at once: it wasn’t illness. It was fear.
Emily paled. “She’s here.”
Jonathan’s fury sharpened into cold resolve. “Act normal,” he murmured. “We’re allies now.”