Chương 4
Leah answered with, “Rachel, I saw a video.”
Rachel’s stomach dropped.
“What video?”
“Oh, hell. You don’t know.”
“Leah.”
“Someone recorded the party.”
Rachel looked toward the house.
“I need you as a lawyer.”
“That part I figured out.”
“My daughter is alive.”
The line went quiet.
Rachel waited.
Unlike most people, Leah did not fill silence because she was uncomfortable.
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Is the baby with Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe she is in immediate physical danger?”
Rachel thought about Daniel lowering his chin when the child stirred.
“No.”
“That matters. Listen to me carefully. Do not go back inside. Do not send Daniel threats. Do not post anything. Do not answer reporters. Do not agree to meet anyone from the hospital alone. And do not sign a single piece of paper.”
“I want my daughter.”
“I know.”
“No. I don’t think you do.”
Leah’s voice softened.
“You’re right. I don’t.”
Rachel put her hand over her mouth.
For six weeks people had told her what they understood.
They understood grief.
They understood trauma.
They understood that hearing a baby cry after delivery could become confused in memory.
They understood why she kept waking at 3:17 every morning.
They understood why she stood in the nursery after Daniel had asked the staff to remove the crib.
Everyone understood.
Leah said, “I can help you make choices that don’t give them new weapons. That’s what I can do tonight.”
Rachel looked at the house again.
“Okay.”
“Drive to my office.”
“I haven’t eaten.”
“Then get food on the way.”
Rachel nearly snapped at her.
Instead she said, “I’m not hungry.”
“I didn’t ask whether you were hungry.”
It was such a normal, irritating sentence that Rachel obeyed.
She bought a turkey sandwich from a gas station and ate half of it in Leah’s conference room without tasting anything.
The video had already been shared thousands of times.
It began after Rachel entered, so the world did not see her sitting in her car for fourteen minutes beforehand trying to make herself open the door. It did not see her vomit into an empty coffee cup after noticing Daniel through the window. It did not see her wipe her mouth with a napkin and check her reflection because some ridiculous part of her still cared that she looked sick.
The video began with the ring striking the table.
Keep the ring, Daniel.
Just give me the baby you told everyone was dead.
Rachel watched six seconds and pushed Leah’s phone away.
“I can’t.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Who posted it?”
“Unknown. Copies are everywhere.”
“Can we stop it?”
“No.”
Rachel stared at the half sandwich.
Leah sat across from her in shirtsleeves, reading notes.
“Did Daniel ever give you a death certificate?”
“No.”
“Did you request one?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Rachel looked up.
Leah held her gaze.
It was not accusation. That almost made it worse.
“Because my husband told me our daughter died.”
“Good.”
Rachel frowned.
“Not good that he told you. Good that you answered the question without trying to make yourself sound less trusting. You trusted your husband. That’s normal.”
Rachel looked away.
“My mother asked for the certificate.”
“When?”
“Two weeks after the funeral. She wanted it for some paperwork. I told her Daniel had everything.”
“What did he say?”
“He said his office was handling it.”
“Did your mother ask again?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I got angry.”
Rachel rubbed her thumb over the pale indentation where her wedding ring had been.
“I told her to stop turning Evelyn into paperwork.”
Leah made a note.
“Where is your mother now?”
“Arizona.”
“Does she know about tonight?”
“Probably the whole country knows about tonight.”
“Call her before the whole country explains it to her.”
Rachel did not want to.
That was the first ordinary selfish thing she allowed herself.
She did not want to hear her mother cry. She did not want to apologize. She did not want to explain that her mother had been right to ask practical questions while Rachel had been offended by them.
Leah slid the phone across the table.
“Five minutes.”
Rachel called.
Her mother answered without saying hello.
“Is she alive?”
Rachel began crying before she could reply.
The next morning, Rachel learned that her daughter had never been legally recorded as dead.
Leah obtained that information through a combination of requests, calls, and one hospital attorney who sounded alarmed enough to stop being careful.
Evelyn Rose Hayes had been born at 2:41 a.m.
Apgar scores were low at one minute and improved at five.
She required respiratory support.
She was transferred out of the operating area.
No death time appeared.
No certificate of death had been filed with the county.
Instead, a restricted neonatal transfer entry appeared approximately four hours after birth.
Destination information was obscured in the patient copy Rachel received.
“That’s not normal, is it?” Rachel asked.
Leah was reading.
“I’m not a doctor.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know enough not to use the word normal until we understand who entered this and why.”
They sat in Leah’s office at seven in the morning. Neither had slept.
Rachel wore yesterday’s dress beneath a borrowed cardigan. Her hair had partially fallen out of its bun. She had stopped checking her phone after midnight.
Daniel had sent forty-three messages.
The first ones were desperate.
Please come back.
Please let me explain.
Evelyn needs both of us calm.
Then defensive.
You don’t know everything that happened.
Mom made decisions while I was with you.
Then desperate again.
I know what I did was unforgivable.
Then, at 4:12 a.m.:
I thought I was protecting her.
Rachel had stared at that message longer than the others.
Not you.
Her.
At eight fifteen, Daniel’s attorney called Leah.
At eight twenty-three, Margaret’s attorney called separately.
That interested Leah.
“Why separately?” Rachel asked.
May you like
“Because families become very individual when lawyers arrive.”
By nine, St. Catherine Medical Center had issued a short public statement saying it was reviewing “serious concerns regarding the handling and documentation of a neonatal patient.” The statement did not name Rachel or Evelyn.
