“She would know what to say.”
“She would start by feeding you.”
That made me cry again, but this time it was different. Not the helpless crying from the apartment. This was grief returning to a place where it belonged.
Over the next week, life became quiet in careful ways. Dad made oatmeal with too much cinnamon. I sat in the backyard wrapped in blankets, feeling the baby shift beneath my hands. Priya called every other day. My doctor adjusted my diet and rest schedule.
At night, though, the fear returned.
I dreamed of the blue blanket. Of Linda’s voice outside the bedroom door. Of Ryan telling people I was confused.
One evening, Dad found me awake at the kitchen table at 2:00 a.m., staring at the cream-colored letter from Claire.
He poured two cups of chamomile tea and sat across from me.
“Can’t sleep?”
“I keep wondering who mailed this.”
“The postmark was from Milwaukee.”
I looked up. “You checked?”
“I notice things.”
Of course he did.
“Maybe Claire lives there,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“You found something.”
Dad’s silence answered before he did.
He opened his notebook and turned it toward me. Written on the page were three names.
Claire Whitman.
Ryan Carter.
Lakeside Women’s Clinic.
My eyes settled on the clinic name. “That’s where Ryan wanted me to transfer my prenatal care.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I wanted to stay with Dr. Patel. Ryan was angry for days.”
Dad tapped the paper gently. “Claire Whitman was once listed as an emergency contact for Ryan Carter on an old rental application.”
“How did you get that?”
“Legally,” he said, before I could ask. “A friend connected me with a private investigator. Retired police. Very careful.”
I exhaled.
Dad leaned back. “Claire rented an apartment with Ryan four years ago. They separated less than a year later. After that, she seems to have disappeared from most public records.”
“Disappeared?”
“Changed addresses several times. No social media. No current phone listing.”
The baby moved, a slow roll under my palm.
“Dad,” I whispered, “what happened to her baby?”
His face softened. “I don’t know.”
For the first time, I realized Claire’s letter was not only a warning. It was a plea from someone who had been afraid long before I was.
The next morning, I made a decision.
“I want to find her.”
