Mason placed the metal box on the long table.
Bear approached it.
"That's the stuff?"
"Most of it."
"Anything useful?"
"Enough to make me angry."
Bear pulled out a chair.
"Then sit down."
Mason did.
He explained the letters, the adoption records, and Daniel's discovery that Mason had continued searching long after the county office had closed his request.
When he finished, Bear remained silent.
Then he asked, "You thinking about suing somebody?"
Mason shook his head.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what happened."
"That's why you investigate."
Mason looked at him.
Bear leaned forward.
"Listen, brother. I'm not telling you to start a fight. I'm telling you that if somebody made decisions that separated two children and then concealed the truth, there ought to be an explanation."
Luis looked up from the motorcycle.
"He's right."
Denise joined them.
"Do you have the original records?"
"Some copies."
"Then preserve everything. Don't write on the originals. Don't separate pages. Photograph each document. Record where it came from."
Mason smiled faintly.
"You sound like a lawyer."
"I sound like somebody who has spent twenty years dealing with paperwork that people swear they never received."
Bear pointed at her.
"That's why she's in charge of the money."
Denise ignored him.
She looked at Mason.
"Do you want help?"
He glanced around the table.
For most of his life, he had been accustomed to handling difficult things alone.
The search for Owen had been personal. He had rarely discussed it, even with the people closest to him.
But the Iron Harbor Riders had never been a family that required someone to pretend they were invulnerable.
"Yes," Mason said.
Denise nodded.
"Then we'll help."
Bear leaned back.
"Good. Because I already hate whoever caused this."
Mason almost laughed.
"That's not particularly useful."
"I didn't say it was."
Over the next several days, the club helped Mason organize the documents.
Denise contacted an attorney who specialized in adoption records and historical child-welfare cases.
His name was Robert Ellison.
He was in his early sixties, had spent more than thirty years working with families separated through the foster-care system, and had a reputation for being patient with people who had been given incomplete answers.
He agreed to meet Mason and Hannah at his office.
The meeting lasted nearly three hours.
Robert examined every document carefully.
He asked questions about the dates, the addresses, the original foster placements, and the letters.
When Mason described his attempts to locate Owen, Robert took detailed notes.
"Did you ever receive a written denial?"
"No. I was told verbally that the records were sealed."
"Did anyone explain whether you could request contact through an intermediary?"
"No."
"Did anyone tell you that your brother had the right to consent to contact?"
"No."
Robert looked down at the paperwork.
"That doesn't necessarily mean the agency violated a law. We need to establish what rules applied at the time and what records were maintained. But there are inconsistencies here."
Mason leaned forward.
"What kind?"
Robert pointed to one page.
"This notation indicates that the agency considered sibling contact. Another record suggests that no contact was ever requested by either child."
"But I requested it."
"Exactly."
Mason stared at the paper.
Robert continued.
"There is also a reference to a placement review that doesn't appear in the file you received."
Hannah looked concerned.
"Could it have been lost?"
"Possibly. Records from that period were not always digitized consistently. But we shouldn't assume an innocent explanation or a deliberate one until we have evidence."
Mason nodded.
"What do we do?"
"First, we request the complete archived file. Second, we request the agency's retention records and any available correspondence relating to the placement. Third, we determine whether any former caseworkers are still available to speak with us."
Mason looked at Hannah.
She nodded.
Robert closed the folder.
"I want to make one thing clear."
Mason waited.
"Whatever happened, none of it was the responsibility of either child."
The words landed harder than Mason expected.
Robert continued.
"You were fourteen. Your brother was eight. You were not responsible for navigating a complicated child-welfare system. You were children who had already lost their mother."
Mason looked away.
"I should have done more."
Robert shook his head.
"You did what a child could do. You filed requests when you became an adult. You hired an investigator. You continued searching. The fact that you couldn't locate him does not mean you abandoned him."
Mason said nothing.
Hannah reached across the table and touched his hand.
Robert gave them time.