Chapter 3 - The Trap at the Crib
As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind Elliot, the click of the latch sounded like the hammer of a gun falling on an empty chamber. The room went quiet, save for the low hum of the IV pump beside my bed.
“The nurse is bringing Rosalind down now,” Mrs. Vance said, her professional armor cracking just enough to show a flicker of genuine pity. “The pediatric supervisor personally oversaw the blood draw for the rush DNA verification. We have placed physical security guards at the doors of both nurseries. Your daughter will not leave your room until you are discharged.”
“Thank you,” I said, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. I refused to let tears fall. Elliot didn't deserve my grief; he deserved my absolute ruinous wrath.
Petra walked over, took a seat on the edge of the mattress, and rested a hand on my ankle. “Are you holding up?”
“I’m awake,” I said, pulling my hands away. “That’s all that matters. What about Leanne? Where is she?”
Petra checked her watch. “She’s still in room 428 on the maternity wing. She doesn't know Elliot’s been detained yet. She’s waiting for him to bring her the morning discharge papers so she can sign out with your baby before the shift change at 8:00 a.m.”
A cold, methodical clarity settled into my chest. For three years, I had played the role of the obliging, supportive wife. I had let Elliot handle the property acquisitions, allowed his sister to move into my lake cottage on Elm Street rent-free, and funded her maternity wardrobe, her medical specialists, and her luxury stroller. They had mistaken my kindness for weakness, my quiet nature for stupidity.
“She thinks she's walking out of here with my daughter,” I murmured.
“That was the plan,” Petra said, leaning in. “According to the discharge log, Elliot had pre-cleared Leanne’s departure using a forged signature on the infant release manifest. He listed himself as the accompanying guardian. If you had stayed asleep another two hours, Leanne would have been in an Uber on her way to the airport with your daughter, while you would have been handed Leanne’s child as 'Rosalind.'”
“She’s not getting to the airport,” I said.
“No,” Petra agreed. “She’s not. But we have to play this carefully. If we confront Leanne in her room right now, she might claim she had no knowledge of what Elliot did—that he acted alone, that she was just an innocent mother trusting her brother. We need her on record confirming the conspiracy.”
A knock sounded at the door.
A pediatric nurse wheeled a clear acrylic bassinet into the room. Inside, wrapped in a fresh white flannel blanket with tiny pink stripes, was my daughter. Her dark hair was damp against her scalp, and on her left temple, clear and distinct as a brand, was the pale, oval birthmark.
My breath caught in my throat. The pain in my abdomen from the surgical incision vanished. I reached out with both arms, and the nurse gently lifted the three-pound miracle into my chest.
Rosalind was light, impossibly light, like a bundle of down feathers, but her skin was warm. Her tiny mouth worked against the edge of my gown, and when I touched her knuckle, her miniature fingers clamped around my pinky with surprising strength.
“She’s perfect, Clare,” Petra whispered softly.
“She’s mine,” I said, kissing the soft spot on her head. “And no one touches her again.”
I looked up at Petra. “Call Leanne's room from the bedside phone. Tell her the discharge desk needs her in the private consultation alcove by the main nursery to finalize the baby’s insurance documents before departure. Tell her Elliot is already waiting down there with the paperwork.”
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Petra smiled—a sharp, wolfish grin that didn't reach her eyes. “And what do you want me to do when she gets there?”
“Don't do anything,” I replied, settling my daughter against my collarbone. “Have the nursery supervisor place the empty bassinet marked 'Corbett' inside the alcove. Let's see which child Leanne tries to wheel toward the exit doors.”
