By morning, the maternity ward no longer felt like a hospital. It felt like a secured terminal after a breach—badges checked repeatedly, doors locking behind you, voices low and cautious, as if panic was standing just out of sight.
Detective Alvarez returned with two officers and a woman in a navy suit who introduced herself only as “Risk Management.” She scanned the room before sitting, as if searching for weak points.
I looked at the baby—my baby—sleeping peacefully in the bassinet, unaware of the chaos around him. The words escaped me like a sob.
“So you still don’t know where my biological baby is.”
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But we have strong leads. Three infants have bracelet scans that don’t match their footprint timestamps. That doesn’t usually happen by chance.”
Megan sat beside me, hollow-eyed, clutching a hospital blanket. She wasn’t holding a baby anymore. The infants had been moved to a secured nursery “for safety,” which somehow felt like another loss—necessary, but brutal.
A nurse I didn’t recognize came in for another cheek swab. Her badge read S. MARSH. She smiled too brightly.
“Just routine,” she said, as if this were an ordinary day.
When she leaned over the bassinet, her hand trembled—just barely. Her eyes flicked to Alvarez, then to the door.
A chill slid down my spine.
After she left, I whispered, “Who was that? She wasn’t here yesterday.”
Alvarez checked his notes. “She’s a float nurse. Pulled from pediatrics. She was on shift the night you delivered.”
Megan’s voice shook. “I remember her. She commented on my baby’s cry—like she knew him.”
My throat tightened. “Can you look into her?”
Alvarez’s expression shifted. “We are.”
An hour later, Ryan called.
I almost ignored it.
“What’s taking so long?” he snapped. “This is ridiculous. The hospital is embarrassing us.”
Embarrassing.
He exhaled sharply. “If this gets out, people will think—”
