Chapter 2 - The Paper Trail In Baton Rouge
The sound of Carmen’s aggressive typing clattered through the phone speaker like hail hitting a metal roof.
“Give me a minute,” Carmen muttered, her breathing shallow as she navigated the parish clerk’s digital archives.
“I have to bypass the restricted access firewall on domestic files.”
I stood by the kitchen window, watching the kids eat their pancakes in absolute, unnatural silence.
Normal children made noise when they ate.
Normal children argued over syrup, dropped forks, and laughed at cartoon shows on their tablets.
These children ate like soldiers in a trench who were terrified that a single dropped spoon would give away their position.
“Naomi?” Carmen’s voice came back through the receiver, stripped entirely of sleep and heavy with an ominous gravity.
“I’m here, Carmen. What do you see?”
“When was the last time Celeste told you she was in front of a judge?”
“She told the family they finalized the divorce eighteen months ago,” I answered, keeping my voice low so the children couldn't hear.
“She claimed Daniel signed a full waiver of parental rights because he didn't want to pay the back child support.”
Carmen let out a harsh, incredulous breath that sounded like tearing paper.
“Naomi, Daniel Vance never signed away a single fingernail.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What does the docket say?”
“There is an active, enforceable permanent custody order issued by Judge Marcus Vance—no relation to Daniel—signed exactly fourteen months ago,” Carmen read, her voice climbing in pitch.
“Daniel Vance has joint legal custody and fifty-fifty physical visitation rights scheduled on an alternating two-week rotation.”
I gripped the edge of my granite counter so hard my knuckles went chalk-white.
“She told us she had sole legal and physical custody,” I whispered.
“Celeste has been held in civil contempt four separate times in the last twelve months for custodial interference and willful concealment of minors,” Carmen read directly from the docket.
“There is an outstanding show-cause order against her right now in East Baton Rouge Parish.”
“A show-cause order?”
“A bench warrant, Naomi, if she fails to produce the children at the next status conference,” Carmen said, her voice dropping to a fierce, urgent hiss.
“She changed their physical addresses three times without filing the statutory sixty-day relocation notices required under Louisiana Revised Statutes Title Nine.”
“She told our parents she was moving to get closer to better school districts,” I said, my mouth tasting like copper.
“She was running from process servers, Naomi,” Carmen countered ruthlessly.
“Daniel Vance has spent nearly eighty thousand dollars in legal fees and private investigator retainers trying to locate his children.”
I looked back at the kitchen table.
Mason was watching me, his eyes tracking every shift in my posture with the hyper-vigilance of a child who had lived through a dozen raids.
“Carmen,” I whispered into the phone, turning my back to the room.
“She just dropped all five kids on my porch forty minutes ago.”
The silence on the other end of the line was absolute.
“She what?” Carmen gasped.
“She and her new boyfriend Trent are on their way to New Orleans to catch a flight to Paris for a three-week European vacation.”
“Did she execute a formal power of attorney granting you temporary guardianship?”
“She left an accordion folder with school schedules and health insurance cards,” I replied, looking down at the red plastic tabs on my counter.
“No notarized guardianship affidavit?”
“Nothing signed by a notary. Just her handwritten notes and a printed itinerary.”
Carmen let out a slow whistle through her teeth.
“Naomi, listen to me very carefully as your attorney and as your friend,” she said, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register she used in depositions.
“Under Louisiana law, you do not possess legal custody of those children.”
“I know that.”
“If Daniel Vance finds out you are harboring those children while Celeste is out of the country, he has the statutory authority to arrive at your home with the St. Martin Parish Sheriff’s Department and have you cited for custodial interference as an accessory.”
“I’m not harboring them, Carmen,” I said, my fingers closing around the worn slip of notebook paper in my pocket.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m calling him.”
“Naomi, wait,” Carmen warned.
“If you call him without a legal strategy, this becomes an uncontrolled wildfire.”
“He is their father, Carmen!” I hissed, my composure cracking for the first time.
“He has spent fourteen months looking for his babies while my family treated him like a monster!”
“I am not telling you not to call him,” Carmen replied, her tone sharpening with legal precision.
“I am telling you to call him and tell him to meet you at my office in Baton Rouge instead of your house.”
“Why?”
“Because if you bring those children across parish lines directly to his custody without an emergency custody transfer document witnessed by counsel, Celeste’s attorneys will file emergency kidnapping motions against Daniel the second she lands at Charles de Gaulle.”
“She wouldn't do that to her own children,” I whispered, though deep down, I knew it was a lie.
“She has already filed three false police reports claiming he stalked her at grocery stores he had never entered,” Carmen said flatly.
“The judge threw all three out with sanctions, but Celeste doesn't care about sanctions. She cares about control.”
“Okay,” I said, nodding slowly.
“Give me Daniel’s current direct number from the court records to make sure it matches Mason’s paper.”
Carmen read off the ten digits.
They matched Mason’s worn notebook paper digit for digit.
“Call him,” Carmen instructed.
“Tell him to meet us at my office on Fourth Street at ten o’clock sharp. I will have the emergency interim physical custody transfer papers drafted before you hit the Atchafalaya Basin bridge.”
“Thank you, Carmen.”
“Don’t thank me, Naomi. You’re about to burn your family tree to the ground.”
“It’s already rotten, Carmen,” I said, and ended the call.
I took a single, deep breath, pulled the worn paper from my pocket, and tapped the ten digits into my screen.
I pressed the green button and held the phone to my ear.
It didn't ring twice.
The call connected on the very first buzz.
“Daniel Vance,” a voice answered.
It was rough, gravelly, and tight with exhaustion, but it was unmistakably the same voice that used to barbecue chicken in my backyard four summers ago.
“Daniel,” I said softly.
A sharp, violent intake of air rattled across the line.
There was a five-second pause where I could hear nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing.
“Naomi?” he whispered, his voice trembling with an emotion so raw it made my eyes sting.
“It’s me, Daniel.”
“Are the kids okay?”
He didn't ask why I was calling.
He didn't ask what Celeste had said about him.
He didn't accuse me of hiding them.
He didn't ask if I wanted money.
His very first instinct, after two years of silence, was the safety of his children.
That single question obliterated the final remnants of the lies Celeste had fed our family for seven hundred days.
“They’re safe, Daniel,” I choked out, wiping a sudden tear from my cheek with the back of my hand.
“They’re sitting at my kitchen table eating blueberry pancakes right now.”
A broken sob tore out of Daniel’s throat, muffled quickly by a hand over his receiver.
“Where are you?” he managed to ask, his voice cracking into pieces.
“Are you at your place outside Lafayette?”
“Yes, but don't come here,” I commanded gently.
“Why? Naomi, please, let me see them. I have the court order, I have the certified custody rulings from Judge Vance—”
“Daniel, listen to me,” I interrupted.
“Celeste dumped them on my porch forty minutes ago and left for a three-week trip to Europe with Trent.”
“She left the country?” he yelled, his voice turning thunderous with pure panic.
“She left the country with an active custody compliance hearing scheduled for next Thursday!”
“I know,” I said.
“I just got off the phone with Carmen Delgado.”
Daniel paused, his breathing heavy and ragged.
“You talked to Carmen?”
“She has the court file open on her desk right now,” I explained.
“She’s drafting an emergency custodial transfer petition based on parental abandonment during an active custody order.”
“Where do I go?” Daniel asked without a single second of hesitation.
“Fourth Street in Baton Rouge,” I said.
“Carmen’s office. Ten o’clock sharp.”
“I’m leaving my driveway right now,” he said, the sound of keys jangling and a truck engine roaring to life echoing through the speaker.
“Daniel?”
“Yeah, Naomi?”
“Sophie still has Mr. Pickles.”
The silence that followed was thick with unshed tears.
“She still has him?” Daniel whispered, his voice breaking entirely.
“She takes him everywhere,” I said softly.
“She told me this morning that he smells like your car.”
Daniel couldn't answer.
He let out a shuddering breath, whispered “Ten o’clock,” and ended the call.
I turned around to face my kitchen.
All five children were standing in a semi-circle near the refrigerator, their plates cleared and stacked neatly in the sink.
Mason stepped forward, his eyes searching my face with an intensity that terrified me.
“Was that him?” Mason asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“That was your dad, Mason,” I said, walking over and kneeling down so I was eye-to-eye with him.
“And we have an appointment to keep.”
Leah let out a tiny gasp, covering her mouth with both hands as silent tears began streaming down her cheeks.
Jonah and Eli looked at each other, their seven-year-old faces suddenly breaking into wide, disbelieving grins.
Sophie clutched Mr. Pickles against her chest and looked at me with giant, serious eyes.
“Are we going to Daddy's house now?”
“First, we have to visit Aunt Carmen’s office so the law can make it permanent,” I told them, smoothing Sophie’s messy hair back from her forehead.
“And then, Sophie, you can show your dad how big you've gotten.”
“Let's pack the car,” Mason ordered, instantly taking charge of his siblings with an efficiency born of survival.
“Twins, grab the duffels from the hallway. Leah, get Sophie’s medicine bag from the counter. Move!”
For the next fifteen minutes, my quiet country cottage was a whirlwind of motion.
Suitcases were dragged across the floorboards.
Coats were zipped.
Shoes were tied.
I loaded all seven oversized bags into the back of my SUV, folding down the third-row seat to accommodate the mountain of luggage Celeste had dumped on my lawn.
Sophie climbed into her booster seat in the second row, clutching her stuffed giraffe like a life raft.
“Mr. Pickles needs his seatbelt,” Sophie declared, pointing at the strap.
“He certainly does,” I said, buckling the lap belt across the toy’s worn yellow torso.
“Can’t have him getting reckless on the interstate.”
I climbed into the driver’s seat, checked my rearview mirror, and saw five pairs of eyes looking back at me with a mixture of terror and desperate, fragile hope.
I backed out of my driveway, kicking up gravel just as Celeste had done an hour earlier.
As my SUV turned onto the main highway toward the Atchafalaya Basin bridge, my phone mounted on the dashboard lit up with an incoming call.
The caller ID displayed the word: DAD.
I let it ring three times, staring at the screen as the wipers swept away the light morning mist.
I pressed the hands-free button on the steering wheel.
“Yes, Arthur?” I answered, my tone ice-cold.
“Naomi, where are you?” my father demanded, his voice thick with unearned authority.
“Your mother called your landline to check if the children took their vitamins and nobody answered.”
“I’m in the car, Dad.”
“Why are you in the car with five children before eight in the morning?” he snapped.
“Celeste specifically told you to keep them on their regular routine.”
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“I am keeping them on their regular routine, Dad,” I said, gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel until my palms hurt.
“I’m taking them to see their father.”
