Then I took Tyrell into the elevator.
On the way, he kept up the act—crying, begging me to adopt him, as if the whole world but our family was out to get him.
But I stayed quiet, just politely brushing him off.
By the time we finished the report, it was already six in the morning.
Tyrell stayed at the police department, waiting for his adoptive parents to pick him up.
I finally made it back home.
Relief hit me like a truck—I was sweating cold.
I knew, without a doubt, that this kid had his eyes on us.
‘We can’t stay here anymore…’
I spent the entire day selling the house and prepping to move.
But even that was too late.
At six in the afternoon, I got a call from my son’s homeroom teacher.
“Mr. Lyttleton, why wasn’t Alfie at school today? Is he sick? You didn’t call to excuse him.”
