Chapter 8 - The Adoption Trail
The snow had cleared by the time Eleanor’s Subaru crossed the New York state line, leaving behind a blinding winter glare that reflected off the interstate. Inside the car, the heater hummed a steady, dry rhythm while Clare reviewed the digital adoption logs she had downloaded onto her MacBook.
"The agency is called St. Jude’s Family Services, located just outside Troy," Clare said, scrolling through the spreadsheet entries. "According to William’s notes, the monthly payments from Mercer Hotels stopped flowing to them three months ago because the intermediary account was flagged during an internal compliance audit."
"If the funding stopped," Eleanor noted, keeping her eyes fixed on the icy road, "the agency would have had to transfer the child's file to state oversight or reassign his guardianship. That means there's an official paper trail in the county archives that even Harrison's lawyers couldn't easily scrub."
"Unless Harrison already bought off the new caseworker," Clare added darkly, remembering the ruthless efficiency with which her husband handled business problems. To Harrison, people were line items on a balance sheet—assets to be leveraged or liabilities to be erased.
They pulled off the interstate an hour later, parking the Subaru three blocks away from the red-brick facade of the Rensselaer County records office. The building was quiet, nearly empty due to the holiday week, save for a skeleton crew of clerks managing public filings.
Clare adjusted her gray maternity coat, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. "Wait in the car, Eleanor. If the men from the bank are tracking our plates, a local parking ticket or a spotted vehicle will give us away faster inside a government building."
"Are you sure?" Eleanor asked, her hand resting on the steering wheel. "You shouldn't walk in there alone, Clare. You're exhausted."
"I'm the legal wife of Harrison Mercer," Clare said, a cold, calculated edge to her tone. "In a bureaucratic office, a desperate, pregnant wife looking into historical family trusts holds a lot more legal leverage than an estranged mistress. Let me play the hand."
Eleanor nodded slowly, unlocking the passenger door. "Be careful, Clare. If they're watching the digital databases, pulling these files might trigger an alert on Harrison's desk."
"Let it," Clare said. "It's time he knew I wasn't waiting at home with a tearful apology."
She stepped out into the crisp air, walking briskly toward the records office. Inside, the linoleum floor squeaked beneath her boots. She approached a high oak counter where a bored middle-aged clerk was filing papers behind a glass partition.
"Good afternoon," Clare said, pitching her voice with practiced, polite professional warmth. "I'm researching historical family trusts for the Mercer estate. I need to pull archived guardianship files from St. Jude’s Family Services, specifically regarding a minor placed in foster care under the name Julian Miller, file reference seven years back."
The clerk didn't look up immediately. She stamped a document, then peered over her half-moon glasses at Clare's prominent belly and her designer handbag. "Private adoption and foster files require judicial authorization or direct parental consent unless you're an immediate blood relative."
Clare didn't flinch. She slid her wedding ring—the one she had left under the Christmas tree, which she had retrieved before leaving the apartment—across the counter, letting it sit beside her driver's license.
"My husband is Harrison Mercer," Clare said smoothly, leveraging the corporate weight of the name she had once thought protected her. "The family foundation has funded this agency for over a decade. We are in the process of auditing the endowment accounts before the fiscal year ends on January 2nd. If I have to call Daniel Reeves at Mercer Legal to get a judge's emergency sign-off, I will, but I'd rather not ruin your holiday week with a subpoena."
The clerk stared at the wedding band, then at the name on the driver's license, and finally at Clare's steady, unblinking gaze. The mention of Daniel Reeves—a name well-known in New York legal circles—did the trick.
The clerk sighed, tapping away at her terminal. "Give me five minutes."
True to her word, four minutes later, the clerk slid a thick manila folder across the counter. "File 88-B. Julian Miller. Placed with a certified foster family in Latham, New York, three years ago after the initial agency restructure. Sign the register here."
Clare signed her name with a shaking hand, grabbed the folder, and walked briskly out of the building.
Back in the Subaru, she threw the folder onto the dashboard and opened it. Inside was a current address—a modest suburban home in Latham, just ten miles away—and a photograph of a smiling, dark-haired boy with the unmistakable Mercer jawline.
"We found him," Clare whispered, her throat tightening with a sudden, overwhelming rush of emotion.
Before Eleanor could reply, Clare’s phone buzzed aggressively in her lap. It wasn't a text message. It was a FaceTime call from a number she recognized instantly.
Harrison.
Clare stared at the screen, watching her husband's face ring against the dark background. She looked at Eleanor, then down at the photograph of the seven-year-old boy in the folder.
Slowly, Clare pressed accept.
Harrison’s face appeared on the screen, framed by the familiar minimalist background of his Manhattan office. He looked disheveled, his tie loosened, his eyes bloodshot and frantic.
May you like
"Clare," Harrison said, his voice raw, stripped of its usual corporate polish. "Where the hell are you? Stop running. We need to talk before you destroy everything we've built."
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