Chapter 10 — The Other Baby
The room went silent.
Case 419.
The number seemed to burn into my mind.
Sue was staring at Angela.
“What does it mean?”
Angela didn't answer.
Marcus did.
“It means the child everyone thought disappeared may have survived.”
Rebecca wiped her eyes.
“But where?”
Angela opened the old Hartwell database.
“That's what we're going to find out.”
She typed the case number.
The system rejected it.
ACCESS DENIED.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Marcus leaned closer.
“Can you bypass it?”
“Not without triggering another security alert.”
“Then don't.”
He took the laptop.
“Let's use the paper records.”
Angela looked at him.
“You have no idea how many files there are.”
“Then we search all night.”
I looked at Sue.
She was shaking.
I pulled her close.
“You don't have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“Because that child might be the reason my mother destroyed my life.”
She looked at our baby.
“And I won't let her do it again.”
We spent the next six hours going through documents.
Placement lists.
Hospital records.
Financial transfers.
Old court filings.
Most were useless.
Some were incomplete.
Several had been deliberately destroyed.
But just after midnight, Marcus found something.
“Daniel.”
I walked over.
He had an old scanned page open.
CASE 419 — STATUS: TRANSFERRED.
“Transferred where?”
Marcus scrolled.
The next line was blacked out.
“Can you restore it?”
“No.”
Angela studied the document.
“Wait.”
She pointed at the corner.
“There's a handwritten notation.”
Marcus enlarged it.
Three letters.
R.M.
Rebecca stood.
“R.M.”
Everyone looked at her.
“My initials.”
Angela shook her head.
“Not necessarily.”
Rebecca whispered:
“Then whose?”
Marcus opened another file.
A hospital billing record.
The same case number.
Same date.
Different initials.
R.M.
Sue suddenly gasped.
“I remember.”
Everyone turned.
“What?”
“The woman.”
“What woman?”
“The woman in the hospital.”
Sue pressed her fingers against her forehead.
“She had a badge.”
“What did it say?”
“I don't know.”
“Try.”
Sue closed her eyes.
“R…”
She struggled.
“Rivers.”
Angela froze.
“What?”
“Rivers.”
Marcus looked at her.
“Are you sure?”
Sue nodded.
“Someone named Rivers.”
Angela immediately searched the Hartwell personnel database.
One result appeared.
MIRIAM RIVERS.
Status:
FORMER CHILD PLACEMENT SPECIALIST.
Last known address:
Phoenix, Arizona.
Angela looked up.
“She may still be alive.”
We found Miriam Rivers the next morning.
She lived in a small assisted-living community outside Phoenix.
She was eighty-one.
When we arrived, she was sitting beside a window reading a newspaper.
She looked at us.
Then at Sue.
And dropped the paper.
“Oh my God.”
Sue stopped.
“You know me?”
Miriam's eyes filled with tears.
“I knew you would come eventually.”
My heart pounded.
“What happened thirty-one years ago?”
Miriam looked toward the door.
“Is Martha with you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She slowly stood.
“She always said you would never remember.”
Sue whispered:
“Remember what?”
Miriam stared at her.
“The second crib.”
Sue's face changed.
“You know about it?”
“I was there.”
I felt my pulse race.
“What happened?”
Miriam sat down.
“Your biological mother arrived at the hospital two days after your birth.”
“Why?”
“She believed someone was going to take you.”
“Who?”
“Martha.”
Sue closed her eyes.
Miriam continued.
“But Evelyn had already discovered another child.”
“Case 419.”
Miriam nodded.
“Yes.”
“Who was she?”
Miriam looked at Rebecca.
“Not her.”
Rebecca flinched.
“I was afraid of that.”
Miriam shook her head.
“The second baby wasn't related to Evelyn.”
Everyone went silent.
“Then who was she?”
Miriam looked directly at Sue.
“You.”
Sue stared at her.
“What?”
“You were Case 419.”
I couldn't understand.
“But Sue was Case 417.”
Miriam nodded.
“That's what the records say.”
“Then how can she be both?”
“Because Hartwell changed the numbers.”
Angela's face went pale.
Miriam continued.
“They moved children between case files.”
“Why?”
“To hide where they came from.”
She looked at Sue.
“Your mother discovered that you had been entered into the system twice.”
Sue's lips parted.
“Twice?”
“One record identified you as Case 417.”
“The other identified you as Case 419.”
“Why?”
“Because Case 419 was supposed to be another child.”
Miriam's voice trembled.
“A child who had been born to a woman who died during childbirth.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
Miriam shook her head.
“I never knew her name.”
“Then why was Sue put under that file?”
“Because someone needed a clean identity.”
I felt sick.
Miriam looked at Sue.
“Your mother tried to stop it.”
“What happened?”
“Martha arrived.”
“Then?”
“She brought another woman.”
“Who?”
Miriam looked at Rebecca.
“Her mother.”
Rebecca froze.
“My grandmother?”
“Yes.”
Miriam explained that Evelyn's sister had been pressured into taking Sue.
She was told the child would be protected.
Instead, Sue was transferred under an altered identity.
Then Case 419 was closed.
“Where did the real Case 419 baby go?”
Miriam's face became grim.
“She died.”
Sue gasped.
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“I was ordered to leave the room.”
“By who?”
“Martha.”
I felt rage rise inside me.
“What about the records?”
“Destroyed.”
“By who?”
Miriam looked at me.
“Your father.”
The room became silent.
My father's name had appeared again.
Miriam continued.
“Your father wasn't part of Hartwell.”
“He was trying to get your wife out.”
I stared at her.
“Then why did he pay them?”
“Because they threatened you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
She looked down.
“Your father discovered what Martha was doing.”
“And?”
“He threatened to expose her.”
“What happened?”
“Martha threatened to destroy his reputation.”
“That's all?”
“No.”
Miriam looked at me.
“She threatened to make it look like he had stolen a child.”
I felt a chill.
“My father.”
Miriam nodded.
“He chose silence to protect you.”
Sue began crying.
“So my father knew?”
“He knew enough.”
“Why didn't he tell Daniel?”
Miriam looked at me.
“Because he was dying.”
I remembered my father.
His last months.
His silence.
His constant warnings never to trust people who smiled too easily.
I had thought he was simply sick.
Now I wondered how much he had carried alone.
Miriam reached into a drawer.
She pulled out a small envelope.
“This was supposed to be destroyed.”
I took it.
My father's handwriting was on the front.
FOR DANIEL — ONLY IF MARTHA EVER COMES FOR THE CHILD.
My hands trembled.
I opened it.
Inside was one sheet.
Only four sentences.
Daniel,
If you are reading this, Martha has finally made her move.
Do not let her separate Sue from your child.
The first child she took was not the one she wanted.
I stared at the last sentence.
Then I read it again.
The first child she took was not the one she wanted.
Sue looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
I didn't know.
Until I turned the paper over.
There was another line.
The child she wanted was born thirty-one years later.
My heart stopped.
I looked at our baby.
No.
Martha hadn't suddenly become interested in our daughter after the birth.
She had been waiting for her.
For thirty-one years.
The final line on my father's letter was almost impossible to read.
But I managed.
Because the bloodline was never broken.
Angela whispered:
“Daniel…”
“What?”
She was staring at the date on the letter.
“This was written before you were born.”
I looked at her.
“How could your father know about your daughter?”
Nobody answered.
Then Miriam suddenly began crying.
“There is one thing I never told anyone.”
“What?”
She looked at Sue.
“The red blanket.”
Sue froze.
“What about it?”
Miriam whispered:
“It wasn't meant for you.”
“Then who was it for?”
Miriam pointed toward the hallway.
“The baby they were trying to replace.”
I felt my blood turn cold.
“Replace with who?”
Miriam's eyes locked onto our daughter.
“With your baby.”
At that exact moment, my phone rang.
The caller ID showed no number.
I answered.
A distorted voice said:
“You finally found the truth.”
“Who are you?”
A pause.
Then:
“Ask Martha where she got the red blanket.”
The call ended.
Seconds later, a message arrived.
A photograph.
It showed our nursery.
Our daughter's crib.
The red blanket folded neatly beside it.
And beneath the photograph was one sentence:
SHE WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR DAUGHTER.
Sue screamed.
I looked at our baby.
And for the first time, I understood the horrifying possibility.
May you like
Maybe Martha hadn't been trying to steal our child.
Maybe she had been trying to replace her.
