I didn't sleep that night.
Neither did Lucas.
We stayed in separate rooms, separated by one hallway and fourteen days of lies.
At three in the morning, I went downstairs.
The kitchen light was on.
Lucas sat at the table with his head bowed.
I almost turned around.
Instead, I walked in.
“Show me the paper.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“The number.”
“I don't have it.”
“You wrote it down.”
“No.”
“You wrote it on the sheet Brenda found.”
He looked at the floor.
I waited.
Finally, he reached into his wallet.
He pulled out a folded receipt.
There was handwriting on the back.
417.
I stared at it.
“That isn't the number from the paper.”
“No.”
“What's this?”
“The number I wrote down.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid I'd forget.”
“Four hundred seventeen.”
He nodded.
“And the other number?”
“Eight.”
“The nursery station.”
“Yes.”
I sat across from him.
“Why did you write 417?”
“Because that's what was on the baby's bracelet.”
I felt my throat close.
“Melanie's?”
“I thought so.”
“But the records say something else.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
I opened the medical file.
I had spent an hour comparing every page.
“Melanie's patient number ends in 592.”
Lucas went still.
“So 417 wasn't hers.”
“No.”
“Then whose was it?”
“I don't know.”
“But you saw it.”
“Yes.”
“And you saw a baby wearing it.”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“That the hospital had mixed up our daughter with someone else's baby.”
I leaned back.
“And Nora?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know anything.”
“I know.”
He looked exhausted.
“That's the problem.”
I opened the folder again.
The missing neonatal record bothered me more than anything else.
There was a gap from 2:14 to 3:02.
I pointed to it.
“Something happened during these forty-eight minutes.”
Lucas nodded.
“Probably.”
“Who was on duty?”
“Lena.”
“And Mara.”
“Yes.”
“Who else?”
“I don't know.”
I looked at the medication chart.
“There's an entry here at 2:37.”
He leaned closer.
“What does it say?”
“Transferred.”
“To where?”
“NICU.”
“Was Melanie in the NICU?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was told she never made it there.”
I looked at him.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“No.”
“Then why is there a transfer entry?”
He rubbed his face.
“I don't know.”
We sat in silence.
Then I noticed something else.
A handwritten correction in the margin.
Station 8.
Crossed out.
Station 4.
My pulse quickened.
“Look.”
Lucas leaned over.
“What?”
“Someone changed the nursery station.”
His face went pale.
“Maybe they moved her.”
“Maybe.”
“But why was the old number crossed out?”
“I don't know.”
“Could that be normal?”
“Yes.”
“Could it also mean they moved the wrong baby?”
He didn't answer.
I closed the file.
“We need to talk to Nora.”
Lucas looked alarmed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she left.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You gave her five thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“Then you know how to contact her.”
He hesitated.
“She changed her number.”
“Call her.”
“She won't answer.”
“Try.”
He took out his phone.
He dialed.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Then voicemail.
Lucas hung up.
“Again.”
He did.
This time, the call was rejected.
I looked at him.
“She knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I'm asking questions.”
He shook his head.
“You don't know that.”
“I know she won't answer.”
We called Brenda.
She came downstairs wearing a robe.
“What happened?”
“We need to find Nora.”
Brenda looked at Lucas.
“She called me.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she was leaving town.”
“Where?”
“North.”
“That's all?”
“She said she was scared.”
I looked at Lucas.
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“Did she mention Clara?”
Brenda's face changed.
“She asked me to pray for her.”
“Did she say where the baby was?”
“No.”
“Did she sound like she was carrying Clara?”
Brenda hesitated.
“I heard a baby crying.”
I closed my eyes.
“Was it a newborn?”
“Yes.”
“Could you hear the baby clearly?”
“Yes.”
“Did Nora say it was Clara?”
“No.”
Another piece.
Another uncertainty.
I went upstairs to Toby's room.
He was awake.
He was sitting beside the jar.
“You're supposed to be sleeping.”
“So are you.”
I sat beside him.
“I need you to tell me one thing.”
He nodded.
“Did Aunt Nora leave with the baby you saw?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the baby's face?”
“No.”
“Then how are you sure?”
He thought about it.
“Because Dad knew.”
I felt my heart stop.
“What did Dad know?”
“He knew which baby it was.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn't say anything.”
“Then how do you know?”
Toby looked frustrated.
“He looked at the blanket.”
“What about it?”
“It had something on it.”
“What?”
“A little blue sticker.”
I frowned.
“What kind of sticker?”
“Like a hospital sticker.”
“Did you see the number?”
“No.”
“Did Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he touched it.”
I stared at my son.
Then I remembered the paper.
417.
Station 8.
The blue blanket.
The missing forty-eight minutes.
The second baby.
The nurse who left the hospital.
Nora disappearing.
Lucas giving her money.
I went back downstairs.
Lucas was still sitting at the table.
“We're going back to Saint Vincent.”
He looked at me.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“It's almost four.”
“I don't care.”
“You need rest.”
“I need my daughter.”
His face crumpled.
“I know.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You don't.”
I picked up the hospital records.
“You have spent two weeks telling yourself that not knowing was kinder than the truth.”
He said nothing.
“I can't do that anymore.”
We drove back to the hospital before dawn.
The lobby was almost empty.
The night receptionist looked at my records.
“I need access to the neonatal transfer log.”
She frowned.
“That's restricted.”
“I am the mother.”
“I understand.”
“My daughter's record has a missing section.”
She looked uncomfortable.
“I can't help with that.”
“Then tell me who can.”
She called a supervisor.
While we waited, I noticed a security monitor behind the desk.
The screen showed a hallway.
The elevators.
My heart began pounding.
“Can I see the security footage from two weeks ago?”
The receptionist shook her head.
“Those records are archived.”
“For how long?”
“Thirty days.”
I looked at Lucas.
He stared at the screen.
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked down.
His face changed.
“Who is it?” I asked.
He didn't answer.
I took the phone from his hand.
There was one text.
No name.
Just a number.
The message contained six words.
You need to stop looking for her.
I looked at Lucas.
“Who sent this?”
He swallowed.
“I don't know.”
I read the message again.
Then another arrived.
This one was only four words.
She isn't yours anymore.
My hands went cold.
Lucas stood abruptly.
“We're leaving.”
“No.”
“Now.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever sent that knows.”
“Knows what?”
He looked toward the hospital elevators.
“That you're looking for Melanie.”
The doors opened.
No one stepped out.
But somewhere down the corridor, a newborn began to cry.
I froze.
Lucas did too.
The cry came again.
Thin.
Sharp.
Alive.
And for one impossible second, neither of us moved.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Cry Behind the Elevator Doors Led Us to a Room That Should Have Been Empty, and Lucas Knew Before I Did Why It Mattered
Two Weeks After Burying My Newborn Daughter, I Found My Eight-Year-Old Hiding Money Away for a Reason That Made No Sense
Part 8 of 10
