PART 3
The strangest thing was the newborn breathing softly against my heart.
The newborn who had the same little brown mark beneath his left eye as my son.
The newborn whose hospital bracelet carried the same file number as Matthew’s.
The newborn whose records were connected to my dead child’s death certificate.
I tightened my arms around him.
“Get up.”
Mark didn’t move.
“Andrea—”
“Get up.”
He slowly stood.
I pointed toward the chair across the room.
“Sit.”
He sat.
I remained standing.
I didn’t trust my legs enough to sit down.
“Tell me everything.”
He stared at the floor.
“Everything,” I repeated.
“I can’t.”
“Then I’ll call the police.”
His head snapped up.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because once you call them, they’ll take him.”
“Who?”
Mark’s lips trembled.
“The people who did this.”
A chill ran through me.
“What people?”
He didn’t answer.
I stepped closer.
“Mark, I have spent three months believing my son died in that hospital. Three months sleeping beside an empty crib. Three months wondering if I did something wrong.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
He covered his face.
“I wasn’t supposed to know.”
“Know what?”
“That Matthew was alive.”
My heart stopped.
Not metaphorically.
I swear there was a moment when my body forgot how to breathe.
I looked down at the baby.
His tiny chest rose and fell.
Alive.
Warm.
Real.
My fingers began to shake.
“Say that again.”
Mark looked at me.
“Matthew was alive.”
“No.”
“Andrea—”
“No.”
I backed away.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“The doctors told me he was dead.”
“I know.”
“They gave me a death certificate.”
“I know.”
“They let me hold him.”
“I know.”
“They wrapped him in a white blanket.”
“I know.”
“I kissed his forehead.”
Mark closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“Then how can you stand there and tell me he was alive?”
“Because I saw the records.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“I saw them.”
“No.”
“Andrea—”
“No!”
The baby startled.
His little face scrunched.
He began to cry.
I immediately pulled him closer.
The crying stopped almost as quickly as it began.
My body moved before my mind did.
I rocked him.
I whispered nonsense.
Anything to make him calm.
And that was when I noticed Mark staring at us.
Not at me.
At the baby.
There was something in his expression I couldn’t explain.
Fear.
Guilt.
And something that looked painfully close to relief.
“How long have you known?” I asked.
Mark swallowed.
“Two weeks.”
I stared at him.
“Two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“And you waited until today?”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“You knew my son might be alive, and you waited?”
“I was trying to find proof.”
“Proof?”
“Because I thought I was losing my mind.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You think you’re the victim?”
“No.”
“You have any idea what it feels like to bury a child?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t.”
Mark’s eyes filled again.
“My daughter was buried this morning.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Claire.”
I looked at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Claire was buried this morning.”
I had assumed she had died three days ago.
But he hadn’t buried her until today.
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“Because the hospital wouldn’t release her body.”
“Why?”
“Because there was an investigation.”
My stomach tightened.
“What investigation?”
Mark reached into his jacket.
He pulled out an envelope.
He placed it on the table.
“I think Claire discovered what happened to Matthew.”
I didn’t touch it.
“Why would Claire care about my son?”
“Because she thought he was hers.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“Claire was told the baby she carried belonged to her.”
“Obviously.”
“No.”
Mark shook his head.
“She wasn’t pregnant.”
I stared at him.
The room suddenly seemed too small.
“What did you just say?”
“Claire couldn’t carry a child.”
I remembered the photos.
The pregnancy announcements.
The ultrasound pictures.
The baby shower.
Her smiling face with both hands over her stomach.
All of it.
“She told everyone she was pregnant.”
“She believed she was.”
“That makes no sense.”
“She underwent IVF.”
I stared at him.
“She had an embryo implanted.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The embryo wasn’t hers.”
I looked down at the baby.
“No.”
Mark nodded slowly.
“It was yours.”
My knees weakened.
I grabbed the back of the chair.
“Stop.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because Claire left me a letter.”
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
His hands shook as he unfolded it.
“I didn’t want to believe her,” he whispered.
“Read it.”
He looked at me.
Then he began.
“‘Mark, if you’re reading this, it means they didn’t let me fix what I did.’”
He stopped.
“Keep reading.”
His voice cracked.
“‘The baby isn’t ours. He was never ours. His mother is Andrea.’”
I couldn’t breathe.
“‘I didn’t know at first. They told me the embryo was from an anonymous donor. But six months ago, I found paperwork that didn’t belong to me.’”
Mark swallowed.
“‘Andrea’s name was on it.’”
My hands went numb.
“‘I knew what I had done to her. I knew what I had taken from her. But by then, I loved the baby. I told myself I was protecting him. I told myself Andrea had lost him anyway.’”
I covered my mouth.
Mark continued.
“‘Then I learned the truth. Matthew never died.’”
The paper shook in his hand.
“‘He was transferred out of the neonatal unit at 2:17 a.m. The death certificate was falsified. Someone paid for it.’”
I whispered:
“Who?”
Mark looked at the next line.
His face changed.
“I don’t want to say it.”
“Read it.”
He did.
“‘The person who arranged the transfer was Dr. Samuel Reed.’”
I recognized the name.
I remembered him.
The neonatologist.
The doctor who had spoken to me after Matthew was born.
The doctor who had looked me in the eye and said:
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Carter. Your son didn’t make it.”
My stomach turned.
“No.”
Mark kept reading.
“‘But Dr. Reed wasn’t acting alone.’”
I stared at him.
“Who else?”
Mark lowered the letter.
“Claire didn’t write the name.”
“Why?”
“Because she said the person involved was someone she trusted.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
I stepped toward him.
“You brought this baby here.”
“Yes.”
“You knew he might be my son.”
“Yes.”
“You watched me feed him.”
“Yes.”
“And you still haven’t told me everything.”
Mark looked at the floor.
“There is one more thing.”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“The baby wasn’t supposed to come to you.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Someone told me to bring him here.”
“Who?”
Mark looked toward the window.
“I received a message this morning.”
“From who?”
He pulled out his phone.
He showed me the screen.
There was one text.
BRING THE BABY TO ANDREA CARTER. LET HER FEED HIM. WHEN HE RECOGNIZES HER, SHE WILL UNDERSTAND.
My skin prickled.
“Who sent it?”
“Unknown number.”
“When?”
“Six hours ago.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at the baby.
“Recognizes her?”
Mark nodded.
“That’s what it said.”
I shook my head.
“A newborn doesn’t recognize people like that.”
“Maybe not.”
“Then why did you bring him?”
“Because five minutes after I received the message, someone sent me another photo.”
He showed me.
It was a picture of Matthew.
My Matthew.
Taken shortly after birth.
But this photograph was different from the one in the folder.
This one showed a nurse holding him.
And behind her, on the wall, was a clock.
2:19 a.m.
Two minutes after the hospital claimed he was dead.
My hands started trembling again.
“Where did you get this?”
“Someone emailed it to me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at the baby.
He stirred.
His tiny fingers wrapped around mine.
And then something happened.
His eyes opened.
Brown.
Deep brown.
He looked directly at me.
Not past me.
Not randomly.
At me.
My breath caught.
Because suddenly I remembered something.
Something I hadn’t thought about since the delivery room.
When Matthew was born, I had whispered into his ear:
“Mama is here.”
I had said it three times.
And each time, he had opened his eyes.
The same way this baby was opening his eyes now.
I touched his cheek.
“Matthew?”
The baby blinked.
Mark started crying.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I was beyond tears.
I picked up my phone.
“Call the hospital.”
Mark stood.
“What?”
“The hospital where Matthew was born.”
“Andrea—”
“Now.”
He dialed.
I listened.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then someone answered.
“Denver Memorial Hospital.”
I stepped closer.
“My name is Andrea Carter. My son was born there three months ago.”
There was a pause.
“How can we help you?”
“I need the complete medical file for my son.”
“Ma’am, we can’t release—”
“His name is Matthew Carter.”
Silence.
Long silence.
Then the woman’s voice changed.
“Please hold.”
I looked at Mark.
He was staring at me.
Thirty seconds passed.
A minute.
Then another voice came on.
Male.
Older.
Calm.
“Mrs. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Samuel Reed.”
Everything inside me went still.
Mark’s face turned white.
Dr. Reed continued.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t call.”
I gripped the phone.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how much you’ve been told.”
“I know my son didn’t die.”
Silence.
Then:
“Who told you?”
I looked at Mark.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters very much.”
“I know about the transfer.”
The doctor breathed heavily.
“Then you know too much.”
My heart hammered.
“What happened to my son?”
Another silence.
Then Dr. Reed said something that made the entire world disappear around me.
“Your son was taken because someone believed you were never supposed to become his mother.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who?”
“I can’t say.”
“You will.”
“No.”
“You will.”
“Andrea, listen to me.”
His voice was suddenly urgent.
“Do not take that baby anywhere.”
I looked down at Emerson.
Or Matthew.
I didn’t know which name belonged to him anymore.
“Why?”
“Because if he is the baby I think he is…”
Dr. Reed stopped.
“What?”
“…then the people who took him three months ago already know he’s back with you.”
The call disconnected.
I stared at the phone.
Mark whispered:
“What did he say?”
Before I could answer, someone knocked on my apartment door.
Three slow knocks.
My entire body froze.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Mark looked at the door.
“Did you tell anyone you were here?”
“No.”
The baby began crying.
I held him tighter.
Another knock.
Then a woman’s voice came from the hallway.
“Andrea?”
I knew that voice.
My stomach dropped.
It was Robert.
My husband.
The man who had left me because he couldn’t bear my grief.
And he wasn’t alone.
There was another man standing behind him.
A man wearing a dark hospital coat.
Dr. Samuel Reed.
Mark whispered:
“Oh God.”
I stared at the door.
Dr. Reed looked directly through the narrow glass panel.
Then he raised one finger to his lips.
And mouthed four words:
“Don’t trust your husband.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4…
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