Chương 8
The organizer refused, claiming donors wanted her to have it.
Rachel explained that accepting the money might create tax questions and complicate future testimony. Joan said that money was money and June’s hospital bills still existed. Elena left the room because hearing her daughter’s name beside a dollar amount made her skin crawl.
On the third day, the story changed again.
An anonymous source sent a reporter excerpts from Elena’s staffing assessment. The document mentioned postpartum grief, disrupted sleep, anxiety, and continued milk production.
The article did not accuse her directly. It asked whether a vulnerable woman had been placed in a household where her grief could “attach itself” to another infant.
The phrase spread everywhere.
Attach itself.
As though grief were mold.
The agency suspended Elena’s employment pending review. Its public statement expressed concern for “all affected families” and denied sharing confidential medical information.
Rachel called the statement an invitation to sue.
Elena did not care.
She spent the afternoon deleting voice messages. Some thanked her. Some asked intimate questions about breastfeeding. One man breathed into the phone for twenty seconds without speaking.
Evan arrived after dark with a bag of groceries and a baseball cap pulled low.
Joan let him in but did not hug him.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“So do you.”
“I work outside.”
“I drove from Queens.”
“Not the same.”
He found Elena at the kitchen table sorting mail into piles she did not need.
Evan had lost weight. His beard had grown unevenly because he always missed the same place beneath his chin. Elena noticed this before she noticed that he was crying.
He sat across from her.
“You could have called.”
“I know.”
“I heard someone on television say you were trying to steal that baby.”
“I know.”
“I threw a remote.”
“My mother broke one too.”
“Maybe it runs in the family.”
The attempt at humor fell between them.
Evan rubbed his palms against his jeans. “Did it hurt?”
“What?”
“Feeding him.”
Elena looked toward the refrigerator.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For which part?”
“All of it.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I don’t have separate apologies anymore.”
She looked down at the envelopes.
Evan reached into his coat and placed June’s yellow sleeper on the table.
It had been folded carefully.
Elena stood so fast that the chair struck the wall.
“Why did you bring that?”
“I found it in my car.”
“Take it away.”
“I thought you’d want—”
“Take it away.”
He grabbed the sleeper.
Joan appeared in the doorway but did not enter.
Evan’s face crumpled with anger. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to remember.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
“You put every picture in a drawer.”
“They’re my pictures.”
“She was my daughter too.”
The words seemed to surprise him after they left his mouth.
Elena pressed both hands against the table.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You think I don’t know because I don’t grieve correctly?”
“I think you went into another house and nearly got shot because you don’t care whether you come back.”
Joan whispered his name.
Evan kept looking at Elena.
The accusation landed because it was partly true.
She had not entered the nursery hoping to die. She had not expected Lorenzo. But when the gun appeared, some part of her had accepted it too easily. Leo mattered. She did not.
“I cared about the baby,” she said.
“I know.”
“He needed someone.”
“So do you.”
She turned away.
Evan left the groceries and took the sleeper with him.
That night, Elena moved the container of milk from behind the orange juice to the freezer. She labeled it with the date, though she did not know why.
At the hospital, Leo continued to improve.
Lorenzo visited under supervision. Camille Price required a nurse or social worker to remain in the room. He objected only once. After that, he sat beside the incubator and spoke to his son in low Italian phrases no one else understood.
Sofia later told Elena that Lorenzo had never learned lullabies. Their mother had sung opera when she was drunk and nothing when she was sober. So he read Leo financial news from his phone.
“He says the baby likes numbers,” Sofia said.
“Does he?”
“He sleeps.”
Elena almost smiled.
They met in Rachel’s office, where Sofia had brought documents concerning the domestic agency. A shell company had purchased a controlling interest in the agency four months earlier. The company’s registered manager was an accountant who also handled several businesses connected to Carlo Rossi.
“My uncle could access staff profiles,” Sofia said.
“Why would he choose me?” Elena asked.
No one answered immediately.
Rachel turned a page.
“You were one of three applicants sent to the mansion,” she said. “The other two were rejected before interviews.”
“By whom?”
“The household management account.”
“Daria.”
“Or anyone using her credentials.”
Sofia placed another document on the table. “The agency received a special placement fee for you.”
“How special?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
Elena stared at her.
“I earn seven hundred a week.”
“The fee did not go to you.”
“I understood that.”
Rachel said, “Your postpartum status may have been the reason you were selected.”
Elena pushed back from the table.
Sofia’s voice softened. “We don’t know what the plan was.”
“I do.”
“Elena—”
“They wanted someone who would look unstable near the baby.”
Rachel did not contradict her.
The room’s radiator clicked. Outside, a delivery truck reversed through traffic, beeping at regular intervals.
Elena stood by the window.
“They knew I was still producing milk,” she said. “They knew I had lost June. If Leo died and I was found in the nursery…”
“They could claim you interfered with his feeding,” Sofia said.
“Or that I hurt the nurse.”
Rachel closed the file. “This is a theory. A strong one, but still a theory.”
“Does Lorenzo know?”
“Yes,” Sofia said.
“What did he do?”
“He broke a desk.”
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“That will help.”
“He also turned over every household device requested by detectives.”
