He wasn’t asking about our newborn son, who was hooked up to monitors in the intensive care unit.

He was worried about his mother’s reputation, and his own.

“He knows,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

“Let him know,” my father said, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.

“The police will find him next.”

We drove through the city streets in silence, the windshield wipers sweeping away the first drops of rain.

My mind kept drifting back to the nursery in the house Patricia had forced us to buy.

I remembered Courtney standing over the crib, refusing to let me hold my crying baby.

I remembered Patricia holding the financial papers in front of my face, demanding my signature while I bled from my delivery.

*Sign the trust over to Ethan, Hannah, and we will let you feed him,* she had said.

The memory made my stomach turn over.

My father pulled the truck into the hospital’s circular driveway five minutes later.

Two police cruisers were already parked near the emergency entrance, their blue and red lights painting the wet asphalt.