I looked down at Megan’s stomach, rising and falling under the thin hospital sheet.

My mind went back to my mother’s words.

*You have no idea what else I’ve done.*

*The cradle is already waiting.*

The cradle.

It was a beautiful, antique wooden piece my mother had brought over last week.

She had insisted on restoring it herself, spending hours in our living room with sanders and varnishes.

She had smiled so warmly when she presented it to us.

“A family heirloom,” she had called it.

Now, the memory of her smile made me feel physically ill.

What had she put on it?

What had she done to it?

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it onto the floor.

I needed to call the landlord, or a neighbor, anyone who could go into our apartment.

Just as I unlocked the screen, a notification popped up.

It was a text message from an unknown number.

I tapped on it.

The message contained no text, only a single image.