The Poisoned Cradle and the Mother Who Tried to Steal Our Child
The main lobby was mostly dark, illuminated only by a few security lights.
The reception desk was empty.
I looked toward the sliding glass doors at the front entrance.
The rain was coming down harder now, washing over the glass in thick sheets.
Through the blurred window, I saw a dark sedan parked in the fire lane.
Its headlights were off, but the exhaust was rising in white plumes from the tailpipe.
I pushed through the inner set of glass doors and stepped into the vestibule.
The air smelled of wet asphalt and cold wind.
Through the glass, I saw a figure walking toward the building from the parking lot.
She was wearing a long beige trench coat, her silver hair pinned up in a neat, tight bun.
She was carrying a large, empty canvas bag over her shoulder.
She wasn’t going to the admissions desk.
She was heading toward the side entrance of the hospital, near the emergency room.
I backed away from the glass, my mind racing.
She had a keycard.
Or she had someone on the inside.