Chương 13
“They told me I was sensitive.”
“Yes.”
“They told me I had nightmares.”
“Yes.”
“They said Deborah hated Mom.”
“Yes.”
“They said you left because you didn’t want a family.”
Eric took a breath.
“Some of that was easier for me to let you believe.”
Ryan looked toward the ceiling.
“Of course it was.”
“I’m sorry.”
This time Ryan did not tell him to stop.
He only said, “You need to tell the police everything.”
“I already started.”
“Not started.”
Ryan’s voice steadied.
“Everything.”
“Names.”
“Yes.”
“Dates if you remember them.”
“Yes.”
“The doctor.”
“I’ll try to find the records.”
“Don’t try.”
Eric went quiet.
“Do it.”
“All right.”
“And Dad?”
“Yes?”
“If you minimize one thing to make yourself look better, I’m done.”
Eric breathed out.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
Ryan looked at Sophie through the glass.
“But you will.”
He ended the call.
For a while he sat with the phone resting in both hands.
Then he said, “I hate him.”
I sat beside him.
“Okay.”
“I also believe him.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know what to do with both.”
“You don’t have to do anything with it tonight.”
He looked at me.
“That sounds suspiciously reasonable.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“That explains it.”
The joke was weak.
We both knew it.
It still helped.
A nurse stepped into the hallway.
“Her eyes are opening again.”
We were on our feet before she finished.
Sophie’s right eye was half open when we reached the crib.
Her left followed slowly.
They did not focus.
They moved without finding us.
I felt hope and terror collide inside my chest.
“Hey, baby.”
My voice shook.
“It’s Mom.”
Ryan leaned close.
“Hi, bug.”
Sophie’s mouth moved around the breathing tube.
Her eyebrows pulled together.
A tiny crease appeared above her nose.
I had never been so grateful to see her uncomfortable.
Denise checked the monitors.
“That’s a good sign.”
“Does she know we’re here?”
I asked.
“She may hear you.”
Ryan placed his hand beside her head.
“We’re here.”
His voice broke.
“We’re both here.”
Sophie’s gaze drifted.
For one second it seemed to stop near him.
Ryan froze.
“Did she look at me?”
“Maybe.”
He smiled through tears.
“I’m taking it.”
Denise smiled too.
“Take it.”
The next morning came without either of us sleeping properly.
My parents arrived just after six.
My mother walked into the room, saw Sophie, and stopped.
My father nearly walked into her back.
Neither spoke.
Then my mother came to me and wrapped both arms around my shoulders.
This time I let her call me honey.
My father stood beside Ryan.
They had never been especially close.
My father believed conversation was something done in short bursts between practical tasks, while Ryan talked when nervous and filled silence with jokes.
That morning, Dad put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder.
Ryan covered it with his own.
Nothing else was needed.
A social worker met with us at eight.
Then an investigator from child protective services.
Then another detective.
The hours became forms, questions, signatures, coffee, vital signs, and waiting.
By noon, Sophie was breathing with less assistance.
By two, Dr. Chen said her EEG remained reassuring.
By four, she opened both eyes when I said her name.
Not once.
Twice.
The second time, she turned her head a fraction toward my voice.
I cried so hard I had to sit down.
Ryan laughed and cried at the same time.
My father left the room because crying embarrassed him, then returned with four terrible cafeteria cookies nobody had asked for.
We ate them all.
The police came back that evening.
Officer Vega brought Detective Samuel Brooks, a broad man with tired eyes and a legal pad folded in half.
He sat with us in a small family consultation room while my parents stayed with Sophie.
“We have more information.”
Ryan folded his arms.
“About my mother?”
“Yes.”
Detective Brooks opened the pad.
“We verified the pediatric portal activity.”
I leaned forward.
“The login came from your home Wi-Fi.”
“So she did it.”
“The account was accessed from a tablet in your kitchen.”
I nodded.
Linda used that tablet to play music while cooking.
Brooks continued.
“We also recovered browser history from the device.”
Ryan’s expression tightened.
“What did she search?”
Brooks looked at me first.
Then at him.
“Several things.”
“Say them.”
“At 1:52 p.m., infant repetitive movement normal.”
Ryan looked down.
“At 2:07, how to stop baby kicking while sleeping.”
My stomach turned.
“At 2:33, baby restraint safety.”
I closed my eyes.
Officer Vega continued.
“Then she used the pediatric portal.”
“And they told her not to restrain Sophie.”
“Yes.”
Ryan said, “What happened after that?”
Brooks checked the pad.
“At 3:06, she searched infant seizure signs.”
“At 3:12, she called the nurse line.”
“The voicemail was at 3:18.”
“Yes.”
“At 3:21, she opened the voicemail transcription through the phone notification.”
Ryan stared at him.
“So she read it.”
“We can establish that the notification was opened.”
“And it said the movements could be normal.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
Brooks hesitated.
“At 3:34, the indoor camera in your living room lost power.”
I looked at him.
“We don’t have an indoor camera.”
Ryan turned toward me.
“The baby monitor.”
My stomach dropped.
The monitor camera could be moved between rooms.
We had left it on the bookshelf because the nursery unit had stopped charging properly.
Officer Vega nodded.
“The camera connected to your baby monitor app.”
I felt suddenly cold.
“What do you mean lost power?”
“The plug was removed.”
“By who?”
“We can’t see that.”
Ryan leaned forward.
“But somebody unplugged it.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“Your phone app logged the device offline.”
I pulled out my phone.
I had ignored dozens of notifications at work that day.
Calendar alerts.
An overdue payment reminder.
Two promotional texts.
I opened the baby monitor app.
There it was.
Camera disconnected, 3:34 p.m.
I had dismissed it without thinking because the thing disconnected constantly.
Ryan looked at me.
“Claire.”
May you like
“I saw this.”
He understood immediately.
