Chương 5
The police arrived a little after seven.
A patrol officer first, then a detective from the department’s missing persons unit after somebody higher up decided that an allegation involving an unaccounted-for newborn deserved more than a patrol report.
Detective Naomi Brooks was around Claire’s age, with short twists pulled back from her face and a winter coat folded over one arm even though it was April.
She put a recorder on the bedside table only after asking permission.
Then she spoke to Claire for forty minutes.
Not once did she say she believed her.
Not once did she say she didn’t.
She asked exact questions.
What time had labor begun?
Who was present?
What medications did Claire remember?
Did she know the sex of the baby before delivery?
Had she chosen a name?
Had anyone discussed adoption?
Had Claire signed anything?
Was Michael Hart legally established as the father before his death?
Did Eleanor Hart ever threaten her?
Did Margaret have access to Claire’s phone, identification, email, or financial accounts?
The questions were exhausting because they were reasonable.
Claire answered as carefully as she could.
The baby’s name was supposed to be Sophie.
Not legally yet.
Just Sophie.
Sophie Morgan.
Michael had once said if he ever had a daughter he liked the name June. Claire had hated June for no defensible reason and teased him about it. After he died, she considered using it as a middle name.
She had not decided.
That detail made her cry harder than anything else had.
Detective Brooks waited.
When Claire stopped, the detective asked, “Who besides your sister knew you were delivering at Hawthorne?”
“My doctor.”
“Friends?”
“Two.”
“Coworkers?”
“My boss knew I’d started leave.”
“Eleanor Hart?”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“But your sister did.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe Margaret intended for your daughter to be taken permanently?”
Claire stared at the recorder.
“No.”
The answer surprised her.
Brooks noticed.
“Why not?”
“Because she packed my ugly sweatshirt.”
The detective frowned slightly.
Claire pointed toward the suitcase.
“That one. Gray. It has bleach stains near the pocket. If Margaret planned to get rid of me and steal my child for money, she wouldn’t pack that sweatshirt. She’d pack the nice clothes because she’d be thinking about appearances. She packed what I actually wear when I’m sick.”
Brooks looked toward the open suitcase.
“That’s your basis?”
“No.”
Claire swallowed.
“My basis is forty-six years of Margaret being controlling in ways she calls helpful. She does terrible things when she convinces herself she’s preventing a worse thing. She doesn’t usually do things for money.”
“Usually.”
Claire looked at her.
“That was unfair.”
“Was it inaccurate?”
Claire didn’t answer.
Brooks made a note.
“Do you know why she needed thirty thousand dollars?”
“No.”
That answer bothered Claire immediately.
Margaret had always been irritatingly responsible about money.
She bought store-brand aspirin and expensive shoes because, as she liked to say, your feet matter more than your headache.
She had worked in payroll administration for the same manufacturing company for nineteen years.
Her townhouse was modest.
Her car was seven years old.
She had no children and, as far as Claire knew, no major debt.
Thirty thousand dollars should not have been enough to make Margaret betray her.
Which meant either the money was not the reason or Claire did not know her sister nearly as well as she believed.
Detective Brooks spoke with Margaret separately.
They would not tell Claire what she said.
That became the first of many ordinary frustrations.
Police investigations did not belong to the person most desperate for answers.
Hospitals did not move at the speed of panic.
Lawyers did not materialize simply because something terrible had happened.
Around eight-thirty a food services employee brought Claire a tray with chicken broth, gelatin, tea, and a small cup of peaches.
He had no idea a newborn might have been abducted.
He apologized because they were out of apple juice.
Claire thanked him.
After he left, she stared at the peaches for a long time.
Then she ate two.
Her body was hungry.
She resented it.
Daniel came in holding a paper cup of coffee.
“You should sleep.”
“I should have my baby.”
“Yes.”
It was the first time he had said baby without qualifying it.
Claire noticed.
“What changed?”
He leaned against the counter.
“Your ultrasound report.”
She waited.
“Dr. Patel will explain it medically. I’m not going to pretend I’m the person who should interpret it.”
“But?”
“But nobody on your team is treating your memory as a likely hallucination anymore.”
Claire put down the plastic spoon.
“Did I give birth?”
Daniel took a breath.
“The evidence supports that you were very recently postpartum.”
Claire closed her eyes.
She felt relief.
Then horror at feeling relief.
Sophie had existed.
That was good.
Sophie was missing.
That was unbearable.
Daniel took a sip of coffee, realized it had gone cold, and made a face.
Claire watched him.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Eight years.”
“Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“No.”
“Do hospitals really have records that can’t be erased?”
“Nothing is impossible if enough people do something wrong.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Sorry.”
“No. I prefer that to somebody telling me the system always works.”
He looked at the loose nurse-call cord.
“It doesn’t always work.”
The plug had been replaced, and engineering had checked the wall unit. A new cable now hung within Claire’s reach.
The old one sat inside a clear evidence bag on the counter because Detective Brooks had asked for it.
Claire noticed Daniel looking at it.
“You think Margaret was trying to stop me from calling you.”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t she just close the door?”
“I don’t know.”
“She could have taken my phone.”
“Did you have your phone?”
Claire looked around.
“No.”
Daniel’s face changed slightly.
“My belongings.”
The hospital had a plastic patient bag in the cabinet. Wallet. Shoes. Earrings in a specimen cup. A folded receipt.
May you like
No phone.
Claire pressed the call button.
