Page 70 of The Other Mother
He mouths three words: “I love you."
The realization hits me like a physical blow. Adam has been carrying the guilt of what he did for months. Part of him wanted to be caught, wanted to face consequences, and wanted the truth to come out. All this time, I thought he was trying to control the narrative to protect himself. But maybe he was just trying to protect me from the consequences of his choices.
Adam's phone buzzes in the hand of the agent holding him. The agent glances at the screen, and his face goes pale. He immediately calls for backup, speaking urgently into his radio.
Agent Holt returns to the car, her expression grim. "Claire, we have a problem. Someone just leaked this investigation to the press. Jessica Towler was going to publish the story once we were ready, but these so-called journalists? Who knows?”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Just assume that everything is about to become very public, very quickly.”
She pauses, her eyes meeting mine with the weight of terrible knowledge.
"And some very dangerous people are going to want to keep their secrets buried.”
33
THE OTHER MOTHER
The Reno safe house smells like industrial carpet cleaner and instant coffee, a sterile scent that makes my skin crawl. I've been in witness protection stashed away in this place for months, waiting for trial. Eva sits in her car seat on the beige carpet beside me, stacking wooden blocks while I stare at the television screen in horror. My own face looks back at me from every news channel, the photo they're using from my old hospital ID badge making me look younger and more naive than I feel now.
"Baby Trafficking Network Exposed: Hospital Staff Arrested in Multi-State Operation," the CNN anchor announces over footage of Adam being led away in handcuffs. His face is turned away from the cameras, but I can see the defeat in his shoulders.
Eva's face is blurred in every shot, but the reporters keep calling her "the disputed child that exposed aninternational trafficking ring." As if she's evidence instead of a person. As if she's property to be claimed rather than a baby who giggles when I sing to her and reaches for me when she's scared.
A picture of Ava Pierce, the person I only heard about, appears on the screen. Her house is wrapped in yellow crime scene tape. The reporter's voice is carefully neutral as she describes the "apparent suicide” of the hospital social worker who was scheduled to testify before the grand jury. But I can see the truth in Agent Holt’s face every time her name comes up. Someone wanted her quiet permanently.
"Three families whose children were recovered have received death threats," Agent Holt says as she enters the living room, her expression grim. "Someone is trying to silence witnesses before the grand jury convenes next week."
The coffee mug in my hands feels impossibly heavy. "Death threats?"
"Phone calls, emails, packages delivered to their homes. All with the same message,withdraw your testimony or face consequences." She sits across from me, her hair pulled back so severely it makes her look like she's prepared for war. "We believe the trafficking network has connections much higher than hospital staff. Someone with serious money and influence is willing to kill to protect their operation."
Eva babbles something that sounds almost like "mama" and holds up a red block for my approval. Thenormalcy of it, her complete innocence in the middle of this nightmare, makes my chest tight with fear and love in equal measure.
"Show me," I whisper.
Agent Holt opens a manila folder that's thicker than a phone book. The first page makes my blood run cold: an organizational chart showing the trafficking network's hierarchy. Hospital staff like Ava Pierce occupy the bottom tier, labeled "Local Facilitators." Above them are "Regional Coordinators." At the top, connected by red lines to boxes spanning multiple countries, are names I don't recognize but whose influence is obvious from the careful way Holt handles their files.
"Eva wasn't randomly stolen," she says quietly, glancing at my daughter. "She was pre-selected before she was even born. Mara's pregnancy was monitored for months. They had genetic testing results, health screenings, even photos from her ultrasounds."
The folder contains documents that make me feel sick. Prenatal reports with Eva's "marketable traits" highlighted in yellow. Buyer profiles with specific requests for ethnicity, eye color, projected intelligence based on parental background. Financial records showing Eva was worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to international buyers.
"The buyer who originally wanted Eva backed out at the last minute," Holt continues. "That's why she was placed with you instead of being shipped overseas immediately. You were the backup plan especially sinceyour husband was one of the vice presidents of this organization.”
I look at Eva, who's moved on to trying to fit a square block through a round hole with the determined concentration of an almost one year old. Someone looked at ultrasound images of her tiny forming body and saw dollar signs. Someone calculated her worth based on the color of her skin and hair and the shape of her nose.
"Who was the buyer?"
Holt hesitates, then slides another document across the coffee table. The name at the top makes my hands shake: David Dandridge, tech billionaire, with addresses in San Francisco, London, and Singapore. His net worth is listed as 4.2 billion dollars.
"When our investigation became public, he ordered the cleanup," Holt says. "Ava Pierce was murdered because she could identify him. He's purchased at least six children over the past three years, all through this network."
The room feels like it's shrinking around me. Eva abandons her blocks and crawls toward me, pulling herself up on my legs with the determination of someone who knows exactly where she belongs. Her tiny hands grab fistfuls of my sweater as she tries to climb into my lap.
"What does this mean for us?” I ask.
"It means you have three options, and none of them are good."
