PART 4
The original hospital birth records were gone.
That was the first thing Detective Hale told me after the DNA results came back.
The second thing was worse.
My stepmother had disappeared.
And the third thing nearly broke me.
Someone had accessed the hospital’s archived maternity database less than twenty minutes before the records vanished.
Someone using my father’s credentials.
I stood beside Emma’s hospital crib, staring at the detective.
“Where is my father?”
“We don’t know.”
“Where is my stepmother?”
“We don’t know.”
“Where is Mara?”
“We’re looking.”
“And Ethan?”
“He’s safe.”
I closed my eyes.
At least one person I loved was still alive.
But that comfort lasted only a few seconds.
“Can I see him?”
“Yes.”
Detective Hale led me down the corridor.
Ethan was sitting in a small interview room with his head in his hands.
The moment he saw me, he stood.
“I’m sorry.”
I stopped in the doorway.
Those two words had become unbearable.
Everyone was sorry.
My father was sorry.
My stepmother had never apologized, but somehow her silence felt like an accusation.
Ethan was sorry.
And somewhere in the middle of all those apologies was my daughter.
I walked toward him.
“You knew.”
He nodded.
“You knew they were testing Emma.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my father was involved.”
“I suspected.”
“You knew about Mara.”
“I knew the name.”
“You knew there had been another baby.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t know for certain.”
I stared at him.
“You should have told me.”
“I was afraid.”
“So was I.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“You weren’t.”
He lowered his head.
“I know.”
I sat across from him.
For a few seconds neither of us spoke.
Then I asked the question that had been haunting me since the hospital.
“Did you ever doubt that Emma was ours?”
He looked directly at me.
“No.”
“Even after the test?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
He swallowed.
“Because your stepmother showed me something.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
“The same photograph?”
“No.”
He reached into his jacket.
Pulled out his wallet.
And removed a small, faded picture.
He placed it on the table.
I looked at it.
My breath stopped.
It showed two newborn babies.
One wore a yellow cap.
One wore white.
Behind them stood my father.
But there was another person in the photograph.
A woman.
I recognized her immediately.
Not because I knew her.
Because I had seen her face before.
In old family photographs.
My grandmother.
My father’s mother.
She had died eleven years earlier.
“What is she doing there?”
Ethan looked confused.
“Who?”
“My grandmother.”
He leaned closer.
“I don’t think that’s your grandmother.”
“It is.”
“No.”
He turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
A date.
Six weeks ago.
My hands began shaking.
“That’s impossible.”
Ethan whispered:
“That’s what I thought.”
I stared at the woman.
The face was almost identical to my grandmother’s.
But there was one difference.
A scar beneath the left eye.
My grandmother had never had that scar.
I looked at Ethan.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Then the door opened.
Detective Hale entered.
“We found Mara.”
My heart jumped.
“Where?”
“Three blocks from the hospital.”
“Is she alone?”
“No.”
My throat tightened.
“Who is with her?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Your father.”
I stood.
“Are they alive?”
“Yes.”
“Emma?”
“No.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Mara has another infant.”
The room went silent.
“Where is the baby?”
“In an apartment.”
“My father?”
“Gone again.”
“How?”
“He left before officers arrived.”
I stared at Detective Hale.
“How does he keep disappearing?”
“He has help.”
“Who?”
“We’re trying to determine that.”
I looked at Ethan.
He was pale.
Detective Hale continued.
“Mara agreed to speak with us.”
“Can I see her?”
“She specifically asked for you.”
My heart pounded.
“Why?”
“She says she knows what happened to Emma.”
I followed him.
The apartment was small.
Almost empty.
There were no family photographs.
No decorations.
No toys.
Just a crib near the window.
And inside it was a sleeping baby.
A little girl.
I stopped breathing.
The baby wore a yellow onesie.
The same kind Emma had been wearing when I found her in the dog enclosure.
I looked at Mara.
She was sitting on the floor beside the crib.
Her face was swollen from crying.
When she saw me, she stood.
“You’re her mother.”
The words struck me.
“Which baby?”
Mara looked toward the crib.
“That one.”
I stepped closer.
The baby opened her eyes.
Dark eyes.
Tiny fingers.
A crescent-shaped birthmark beneath her collarbone.
My heart stopped.
I looked at Mara.
“That mark…”
She nodded.
“She was born with it.”
I couldn’t move.
“Then why did you say your baby died?”
Mara began crying.
“Because that’s what they told me.”
“Who?”
“The hospital.”
“Who told you?”
“A nurse.”
“What nurse?”
“I don’t remember her name.”
“Was my stepmother there?”
Mara looked at me.
“Yes.”
My stomach turned.
“How?”
“She came into my room after I gave birth.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me my baby had complications.”
“But your baby was alive.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you believe her?”
“Because I was sedated.”
I looked at the baby.
She was awake now.
Watching me.
Mara continued.
“When I woke up, they told me my daughter had died.”
“Did you see her?”
“No.”
“Did you see a body?”
“No.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“I was barely conscious.”
“And then?”
“They gave me papers.”
“Death papers?”
Mara nodded.
“But something was wrong.”
“What?”
“The name was misspelled.”
I stared at her.
“My father knew.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He came to see me the day after.”
My blood ran cold.
“What did he say?”
“He apologized.”
“For what?”
Mara looked at me.
“For taking my baby.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“He said he didn’t mean to hurt her.”
I stepped back.
“Why would he take your baby?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea.”
Mara shook her head.
“He said it wasn’t supposed to happen.”
The same words my father had used.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.
I felt sick.
“Who was the other baby?”
Mara looked at Emma’s empty hospital crib in my memory.
“Yours.”
I stared at her.
“You’re saying Emma was my baby?”
Mara nodded.
“Yes.”
“And the baby in that crib?”
“My daughter.”
I looked at the sleeping infant.
“Then why did the DNA test say Emma wasn’t mine?”
Mara’s expression changed.
“Because that isn’t Emma.”
The room went silent.
My heart seemed to stop.
“What?”
Mara pointed toward the crib.
“That baby is Emma.”
I stared at her.
Then at the baby.
Then back at Mara.
“No.”
“She is.”
“You said she was yours.”
“I said she was the baby they gave me.”
My head spun.
“What are you saying?”
Mara stood.
“Your father didn’t switch two babies.”
She looked directly into my eyes.
“He switched three.”
I couldn’t speak.
Mara’s voice trembled.
“There were three mothers that night.”
My skin prickled.
“Three?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the third?”
“I never knew her name.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because I saw her baby.”
“Where?”
“In the nursery.”
“When?”
“Before they moved us.”
“What did the baby look like?”
Mara closed her eyes.
“Dark hair.”
I looked at Emma.
“Both babies had dark hair.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“A red mark behind her left ear.”
I instinctively touched Emma’s ear.
Nothing.
Mara shook her head.
“The baby I saw had it.”
I looked at the baby in the crib.
No mark.
Then Mara whispered:
“Your father wasn’t trying to hide one baby.”
“He was hiding all three.”
I felt dizzy.
“Why?”
Mara’s face hardened.
“Money.”
The word hung in the air.
“What does that mean?”
“Your father worked with someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try.”
She hesitated.
Then whispered:
“A private fertility clinic.”
My heart sank.
“What clinic?”
“Bennett Women’s Center.”
I stared at her.
“That’s your name.”
“Yes.”
“Your family owns it?”
“My mother did.”
“And your father?”
“He was an investor.”
I remembered the laboratory reports.
The private testing.
The genetic samples.
The missing records.
Suddenly the pieces began moving.
“What were they doing with the babies?”
Mara looked toward the window.
“Genetic matching.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
She shook her head.
“I know what they told me.”
“What?”
“They said certain families were willing to pay enormous amounts for children with specific genetic traits.”
My stomach twisted.
“Children?”
“Yes.”
“You’re saying they were selling babies?”
Mara’s face collapsed.
“I think so.”
The door behind us opened.
Detective Hale entered.
“We need to leave.”
“Why?”
“Because we just received a warrant alert.”
“For what?”
“The apartment.”
“Why?”
“Someone is trying to destroy the building’s security footage.”
Mara stood.
“Your father.”
Detective Hale looked at her.
“You’re certain?”
She nodded.
“He always does it before people find the truth.”
Then the lights went out.
The baby started crying.
Mara screamed.
“Get away from the windows!”
Detective Hale drew his weapon.
I grabbed the crib.
Emma—or whoever this baby was—was crying.
The hallway outside filled with footsteps.
Heavy footsteps.
Someone was coming toward the apartment.
Detective Hale motioned for us to stay silent.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
Three seconds.
Five.
Then a key turned.
The door opened.
A man stepped inside.
Not my father.
Not Ethan.
Someone I’d never seen before.
He looked at the baby.
Then at me.
And smiled.
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
Detective Hale raised his weapon.
“Police. Hands where I can see them.”
The man didn’t move.
Instead, he pulled a small envelope from his coat.
He tossed it onto the floor.
“My employer wants you to know the truth.”
“Who is your employer?” Hale demanded.
The man smiled again.
“Your father.”
Then he ran.
Detective Hale chased him.
Mara grabbed my arm.
“Don’t go.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what they want.”
“What?”
“They want you outside.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
Mara’s face went white.
“Because your father isn’t trying to escape.”
“What is he doing?”
“He’s trying to get you away from the baby.”
I looked down.
The infant was crying.
Then I noticed something.
The yellow onesie.
The same yellow onesie Emma had been wearing.
The exact same size.
The same tiny embroidered flower near the shoulder.
My heart stopped.
I touched the baby’s cheek.
“No…”
Mara whispered:
“They changed her clothes.”
“What?”
“The baby you brought to the hospital isn’t the baby you think she is.”
My blood ran cold.
“What are you saying?”
Mara pointed toward the crib.
“Look at her left wrist.”
I did.
There was a tiny hospital bracelet hidden beneath the sleeve.
I pulled it free.
The name printed on it was:
EMMA COLE.
I stared.
Then I looked at Mara.
“But my Emma is at the hospital.”
Mara shook her head.
“No.”
She stepped closer.
“The baby at the hospital isn’t Emma.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Mara’s voice broke.
“Your stepmother switched them again.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“How?”
“She had access to the hospital.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
I looked at Detective Hale.
He was still gone.
My phone suddenly rang.
The caller ID showed the hospital.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A nurse screamed on the other end.
“Ma’am, you need to come back immediately.”
“What happened?”
“We have a problem.”
“What problem?”
“The baby in your room…”
My heart stopped.
“What about her?”
“She isn’t there.”
I couldn’t speak.
The nurse continued crying.
“Someone took her.”
I looked at the baby in the crib.
Then at Mara.
Then at the hospital bracelet around the tiny wrist.
EMMA COLE.
The baby in front of me was supposedly my daughter.
The baby who had been beside me at the hospital was supposedly my daughter too.
Two babies.
Two bracelets.
One name.
And somewhere between the hospital, my father’s house, and this apartment, someone had created a nightmare where I could no longer trust even the child in my arms.
Then the front door slammed.
Detective Hale returned.
His face was pale.
“We have a serious problem.”
“What?”
He held up his phone.
A photograph filled the screen.
My father.
Standing inside the maternity ward.
Holding a newborn.
Beside him was my stepmother.
And between them was another woman.
The woman from the old photograph.
The woman who looked like my grandmother.
I stared.
“Who is she?”
Detective Hale zoomed in.
My heart stopped.
Because beneath the woman’s face was a hospital identification badge.
And the name printed on it was:
DR. ELENA BENNETT.
Mara screamed.
“That’s my mother.”
I looked at her.
“But you said your mother died years ago.”
“She did.”
“Then who is that?”
Mara shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Detective Hale stared at the photograph.
“Neither do I.”
Then my phone buzzed again.
A message.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
I opened it.
It showed my father sitting in a dark room.
A newborn baby lay beside him.
And beneath the photograph was a message:
You keep looking for the wrong baby.
Then another message arrived.
Ask your grandmother why she never told you about the fourth child.
I stared at the screen.
My grandmother.
Dead for eleven years.
Fourth child.
I looked at Mara.
She was crying.
“What does that mean?”
Mara whispered:
“There were only three babies.”
I turned toward her.
“Then why did he say four?”
She didn’t answer.
Because at that exact moment, the baby in my arms opened her eyes.
And around her tiny wrist was a second bracelet.
I hadn’t seen it before.
I pulled it from beneath the blanket.
My hands began trembling.
The name printed on it wasn’t Emma.
It was another name.
A name I had never heard.
But Mara recognized it immediately.
She stepped backward.
“No.”
“What?”
“That name…”
Her face went completely white.
“That was the name of my sister.”
I stared at her.
“Your sister?”
“She died before I was born.”
Mara looked at the baby.
Then at me.
Then whispered:
“She wasn’t supposed to be alive.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
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