My grandchildren, Noah and Lily, were standing in the hallway.
Noah was seven.
Both of them stared at the baby as though she had appeared from a fairy tale.
Emily turned to them.
“Go upstairs with Grandma.”
“No,” I said. “You’re coming with us.”
The officer near the window shook his head.
“She’s my daughter.”
“And that baby may be evidence.”
Emily flinched at the word.
Evidence.
The newborn made a soft sound against her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I couldn’t tell which one of us she was talking to.
Ten days earlier, Emily had dropped Noah and Lily at my house and promised she’d be back before dinner.
Then she disappeared.
For ten days, I imagined every terrible thing a mother can imagine.
Her body in a field.
A stranger answering her phone.
Instead, she came home carrying a child nobody knew existed.
“What did you do?” I asked.
Emily looked up.
“Back from where?”
Before she could answer, the baby began crying.
Emily pulled the blanket aside to adjust her.
That was when I saw the bruises.
Small purple marks covered the baby’s left arm.
Needle marks.
