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?”
“I don’t know now,” the doctor
