I heard a faint, tinny voice coming from Ethan’s phone downstairs.

The lawyer was speaking rapidly, citing statutes and demanding to see the physical copy of the warrant.

I turned back to the cribs.

Noah had started to squirm.

He let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

If they heard a baby crying, the investigators would have the legal right to bypass Ethan and search the rooms.

I reached into the small refrigerator in the corner of the nursery and pulled out a bottle of pre-measured formula.

It was cold, but there was no time to warm it.

I cradled Noah in my arms, pressing the rubber nipple to his lips.

He took it eagerly, his small mouth sucking greedily, silencing his cries.

I stood there in the dark, rocking him gently, my eyes fixed on the door.

Outside, the rain began to beat harder against the glass.

The voices downstairs rose in volume, then faded as Ethan led them into his study.

He was keeping them away from the stairs.

He was buying time.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty.