The Locked Locket on the Foster Boy’s Neck Shocked the Billionaire Visitors

Rita's Lawyer Knew Too Much—and He Wasn't Done

The state car smelled of leather and anxiety. Noah sat between Edward and Beatrice, his small body stiff, his eyes darting to the window as if the group home might still swallow him back. Beatrice kept her hand on his knee, her thumb tracing small circles through the frayed fabric of his vest.

"We're taking you home," she said softly. "To a big house with a yard. And a dog, if you want one."

Noah didn't answer. He just clutched the locket, which now held both halves of the crescent, pressing it against his chest like a shield.

Back at the station, the officers processed Rita's arrest. But her lawyer, a slick man named Gerald Vance, arrived within the hour. He stood in the hallway, his briefcase gleaming, his smile sharp. "There's been a misunderstanding," he said. "My client was approved by the state. She has a clean record."

Edward stepped forward. "Your client stole my son. The locket proves it. The birthmark on his wrist matches the portrait inside."

Gerald's smile didn't waver. "That locket could have been planted. You have no proof of kidnapping. And I have a witness who will testify that you sold your own baby eight years ago."

Beatrice gasped. The color drained from her face. "That's a lie!"

Gerald shrugged. "Mrs. Hawthorne, I have a sworn affidavit from a nurse at St. Mary's Hospital. She claims you paid her five thousand dollars to take the infant off your hands. She'll tell the judge everything."

Edward's jaw tightened. "That nurse is dead. She died in a car crash three years ago."

Gerald's smile faltered for just a second. "Then I'll find another witness."

Noah watched from the corner, his small fingers twisting the locket. He didn't understand the legal jargon, but he saw the way the man's eyes flickered to him—cold, calculating, like Rita's when she was deciding which chores to pile on him.

Beatrice knelt beside him. "Sweetheart, do you remember the woman who brought you to the group home?"

Noah nodded slowly. "She had a red coat. She said my mama didn't want me anymore."

Beatrice's eyes filled with tears. "I never stopped wanting you, baby. I looked for you every day."

Gerald's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his face went pale. "I need a moment," he muttered, stepping into the hallway.

Edward turned to the officers. "Check the hospital records from eight years ago. Cross-reference with Rita's employment history. She worked as a janitor at St. Mary's."

The officer nodded and left. Noah looked up at Edward. "Are you really my dad?"

Edward's voice cracked. "I am. And I'm never letting you go again."

But Gerald returned with a smirk. "Your lawyer just called mine. They're offering a settlement—five million dollars to drop the charges. If you refuse, the nurse's affidavit goes public, and your reputation will be ruined."

Edward stepped closer. "You think I care about my reputation? I care about my son."

Beatrice stood, her cape falling to the floor. "We're not paying a cent. And we're not hiding anything. Call a press conference. Let the world see what Rita Griggs did."

Gerald's phone buzzed again. He read the message, and his face went white. "The judge just issued a gag order," he said. "No one talks to the press until the preliminary hearing."

Edward's eyes narrowed. "Who pushed that order?"

Gerald didn't answer. He just turned and walked away, leaving the Hawthornes standing in the cold fluorescent light with their son.

Noah tugged at Beatrice's sleeve. "Is he going to take me away?"

She knelt again. "No. No one is taking you away. We're going to fight this together."

But that night, as they drove to the Hawthorne estate, Noah saw a red car following them. He pointed. "That lady. She was in the parking lot at the station."

Beatrice looked back. The car turned off at the next exit. But the dread in her stomach didn't disappear.