Chapter 5 — The Red Blanket
“There was another baby.”
Sue said it so quietly that for a moment I wondered if I had heard her correctly.
I stared at my wife.
She was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, our newborn daughter sleeping beside her.
Her face had gone completely pale.
Angela stood near the window.
Marcus had stopped scrolling through the documents on his laptop.
Nobody spoke.
I finally asked, “What do you mean?”
Sue pressed both hands against her temples.
“I don't know.”
“You just said there was another baby.”
“I know.”
Her breathing became shallow.
“I remember a room.”
“What kind of room?”
“A hospital room.”
“When?”
“I don't know.”
“Before you were born?”
Sue shook her head.
“No.”
She looked at our daughter.
“After.”
The word made my stomach tighten.
After what?
After her birth?
After the adoption?
After the death of her biological mother?
I didn't know.
Sue closed her eyes.
“I remember a red blanket.”
Angela immediately turned toward her.
“What did it look like?”
Sue opened her eyes.
“Dark red.”
“Anything else?”
“There was a little white stitching around the edge.”
Angela's expression changed.
“You remember a crib?”
“Yes.”
“Two cribs?”
Sue swallowed.
“Yes.”
Marcus slowly lowered his laptop.
“What else?”
Sue stared at the wall.
“A woman was standing between them.”
“Who?”
“I couldn't see her face.”
“Could you hear her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Sue's fingers tightened around the blanket covering her legs.
“She said…”
Sue stopped.
I leaned closer.
“She said what?”
“Don't let them know.”
Silence filled the room.
Angela's face had lost its color.
“What?”
Sue looked at her.
“What?”
Angela shook her head.
“Nothing.”
But it wasn't nothing.
I knew it.
Marcus knew it.
And Sue knew it too.
I stood.
“Angela.”
She looked at me.
“What aren't you telling us?”
She hesitated.
Then she walked toward the bed.
“Before I worked at Hartwell, I spent almost six years reviewing old family-placement files.”
She pulled a folder from her bag.
“There was one file I couldn't forget.”
She placed it on the bed.
The label read:
CASE 417.
Sue stared at it.
“That number…”
“You recognize it?”
Sue didn't answer.
Angela opened the folder.
Inside were photocopies of old documents.
Some were yellowed with age.
Some had blacked-out names.
One page contained a photograph.
A hospital crib.
A red blanket.
Sue gasped.
“That.”
Her hand trembled as she pointed.
“That blanket.”
I felt something cold move through me.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
Angela looked at me.
“This photograph was taken thirty-one years ago.”
Sue stared at it.
She was thirty-one.
My heart began pounding.
Angela turned another page.
“This was the original placement record.”
I read it.
CHILD: FEMALE
AGE: SIX MONTHS
BIOLOGICAL MOTHER: DECEASED
PLACEMENT AUTHORIZED BY: MARTHA HAYES
My mother's name.
Again.
I looked at Sue.
She was crying.
“Why would your mother have authority over my adoption?”
Angela didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she pulled out another document.
“This is why.”
It was a hospital discharge record.
Two female infants.
Born within forty-eight hours of each other.
One mother listed as deceased.
The other listed as—
The name had been blacked out.
I looked at Angela.
“Why is that name redacted?”
“Because someone requested it.”
“Who?”
Angela looked at me.
“Your mother.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened to the other baby?”
Angela slowly shook her head.
“That is the question.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“Was the child adopted?”
“According to the official record, yes.”
“Then where's the adoption file?”
“There isn't one.”
“What?”
“There is a birth record.”
“There is a hospital discharge.”
“There is a placement authorization.”
“But no final adoption.”
Marcus frowned.
“So the child disappeared.”
Angela nodded.
“From the paperwork, yes.”
Sue stared at the photograph.
“I remember crying.”
I sat beside her.
“What do you remember?”
“A woman picked me up.”
“Your mother?”
“I don't know.”
“She carried me past the crib.”
Sue's breathing became uneven.
“She stopped.”
“Where?”
“Beside the other baby.”
“What happened?”
“She looked at us.”
“Both of you?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
Sue closed her eyes.
“She said, ‘This one goes first.’”
Angela froze.
Marcus looked up.
“Who was she talking about?”
Sue opened her eyes.
“I don't know.”
Then she whispered:
“But I remember someone crying.”
“Which baby?”
Sue shook her head.
“I don't know.”
I reached for her hand.
She grabbed mine.
Hard.
“Daniel.”
“I'm here.”
“I think…”
She struggled to breathe.
“I think they separated us.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
“Your adoptive mother?”
“I don't know.”
She looked terrified.
“I think she wasn't supposed to be my mother.”
The room went silent.
Then my phone vibrated.
One message.
From Martha.
YOU SHOULD STOP DIGGING.
Another message arrived.
YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE DISTURBING.
Then a third.
ASK SUE WHO THE OTHER BABY WAS.
I stared at the screen.
My mother knew.
She knew we had found the red blanket.
She knew Sue remembered.
I typed:
Where are you?
The reply came instantly.
At your house.
My blood turned cold.
We had left the house locked.
I called Marcus.
“Call the police.”
Angela stood.
“Daniel…”
“What?”
“Don't go there.”
“That's my house.”
“And that's exactly why she wants you to go.”
My phone vibrated again.
A photograph appeared.
It was our nursery.
Our baby's crib.
And lying beside it—
was a red blanket.
Under the photograph, Martha had written:
SOME THINGS COME BACK TO THEIR ORIGINAL PLACE.
I stared at the image.
Then Sue screamed.
Not loudly.
Not hysterically.
Just one terrified word.
“No.”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
She pointed at the photograph.
“That blanket.”
“What about it?”
“I've seen it before.”
“When?”
Sue looked at me.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Not in a hospital.”
“Then where?”
She whispered:
“In my mother's house.”
I felt the room tilt.
Because Sue's adoptive mother had died twelve years earlier.
And according to every document we had ever seen—
she had never owned a red blanket.
Angela suddenly grabbed the folder.
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“There is one more page.”
She pulled it free.
It was almost completely blacked out.
Only one sentence remained visible.
TRANSFERRED TO: M.H. — PRIVATE FAMILY ARRANGEMENT.
Marcus stood.
“M.H.”
Angela nodded.
“Martha Hayes.”
I stared at the name.
Then my phone rang.
Martha.
I answered.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, her voice came through.
“You should have left the past alone.”
I said, “What happened to the other baby?”
Silence.
Then she whispered:
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“You're not ready.”
“Tell me.”
She laughed softly.
And for the first time in my life, my mother's voice sounded afraid.
“The other baby wasn't lost, Daniel.”
My heart stopped.
“Then where is she?”
Martha said:
“She grew up.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Sue.
She was staring at me.
“What did she say?”
I couldn't answer.
Because the question that suddenly terrified me wasn't where the other baby had gone.
It was much worse.
May you like
If the other baby had grown up—
who was she?
