The study smelled like old books and stale coffee.
Arthur's lawyer, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and a briefcase full of papers, sat behind the massive mahogany desk. He adjusted his glasses, looking uncomfortable with the tension in the room.
Conrad sat in the leather chair behind the desk-his desk now-his fingers drumming an agitated rhythm on the wood. Evette stood behind him, her arms crossed, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.
Bryan sat in the chair opposite, with Izzy perched on his knee. Her small hands were fisted in the collar of his shirt, her knuckles white. She watched Conrad with the wary eyes of a rabbit watching a hawk.
"I have drafted the temporary guardianship transfer agreement," the lawyer said, his voice reedy and nervous. He pushed a stack of papers across the desk. "It states that Conrad and Evette Solomon voluntarily relinquish all parental rights and transfer full legal and physical custody of Isidora Solomon to Bryan Solomon."
The lawyer cleared his throat. "Mr. Solomon, do you agree to these terms?"
Conrad didn't even read the document. He grabbed a heavy silver pen from the desk. He didn't hesitate. He didn't look at Izzy. He just pressed the pen to the paper and scribbled his name.
He pressed down so hard the pen tip tore through the top sheet of paper, the ripping sound loud in the quiet room. He shoved the papers away from him like they were contaminated.
"My turn," Evette said, her voice sharp. She snatched the pen and signed her name with quick, angry strokes, the letters jagged and slanted. She threw the pen down on the desk. "Done. She's your problem now."
The lawyer turned the papers around and slid them to Bryan.
Bryan picked up the pen. He held it for a moment, looking at the messy signatures of his brother and sister-in-law. Then, carefully, deliberately, he signed his name. Each letter was precise, strong, a promise written in ink.
As the ink dried, the invisible cord that had tied Izzy to Conrad snapped. She was no longer his daughter.
Conrad stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. "Get out," he said, his voice flat. "Take her and get out of my house. I want you gone before dark."
"You're unbelievable," Arthur snapped from his chair by the fire. "She is your flesh and blood, Conrad."
"She's nothing to me," Conrad replied coldly. "Bryan wanted a pet, he can have her. Now leave."
Bryan stood up, lifting Izzy into his arms. He didn't look at his brother. He didn't waste another breath on him. He turned and walked out of the study, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.
As they reached the front door, Izzy turned her head. She looked back at the grand staircase, at the glittering chandelier, at the house that should have been her home.
Katelynn was standing on the landing. She pulled her eyelid down and stuck her tongue out, her face twisted into an ugly, mocking grimace. She mouthed the word, "Loser."
Izzy turned her face away. She buried her head in Bryan's neck, breathing in the scent of oil and safety. She didn't look back again.
Bryan carried her out to the truck. He buckled her in, then walked around to the driver's side. He started the engine, the loud rumble drowning out the silence between them.
The truck pulled away from the curb, leaving the mansion behind. Bryan gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He cleared his throat, trying to find the right words.
"You know, Izzy," he started, his voice awkward and gruff, "it's okay to be sad. It's okay to cry."
Izzy lifted her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but they were dry. She looked at Bryan, and a small, peaceful smile spread across her face. It was a smile of release.
"I'm not sad, Bryan-daddy," she said softly. "The plants told me there is no love in that house. I don't want to live where there is no love."
Bryan blinked. He glanced at her, his brow furrowed. "The plants told you?"
Izzy nodded, her face completely serious.
Bryan stared at her for a long moment. He didn't understand. He thought it was just a child's way of processing trauma, a metaphor she had invented to make sense of the cruelty. But the conviction in her eyes hit him square in the chest.
He reached over and took her small hand in his. "Well, the plants are smart," he said, his voice thick. "I promise you, Izzy. I'm going to be your real dad from now on. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again. Nobody is going to throw you away."
Izzy looked at his big, rough hand enveloping hers. She held up her free hand, extending her tiny pinky finger.
Bryan understood. He held up his own hand, his pinky finger massive compared to hers. He hooked it around her little finger. The skin was rough, the grip tight. A pinky swear. The most sacred of oaths.
"I swear," Bryan said.
Izzy nodded, her smile widening.
The truck drove away from the wealthy part of town, the manicured lawns giving way to cracked sidewalks and chain-link fences. They were heading toward the working-class side, toward Bryan's small house.
Izzy looked out the window, watching the scenery change. A flutter of nervousness returned to her stomach. She was starting over.
Bryan glanced in the rearview mirror, then at Izzy. His brow furrowed slightly, a new worry creeping into his mind. He hadn't called ahead. He hadn't warned his wife.
He was bringing home a daughter, and he had no idea how Caitlin was going to react.
