“Arch?” Fletch catches me before I open the door, his hand on my shoulder, his voice just inches from my ear. “She’s preemie, she’s jaundiced, and she was traumatically removed from her mother’s womb.”
“You telling me she might not make it?” Opening the door with the gentlest touch, I shake his hand off and step toward the crib on the other side of the room.
A fluffy rug takes up a large portion of the floor, and a pastel-colored mobile spins and turns above the crib. But the bundle in the middle, the baby who can’t be more than a few pounds, lies still.
Too still.
Too pale.
No way did we come this far just for the baby to die.
No way we hunted down a savage killer, just to find that our target was a hallway away the entire time.
“Arch?”
“Shh.”
My phone vibrates again, but I ignore it and approach the side of the crib. Then, because no one has ever accused me of being gentle, I poke the baby’s shoulder and pray for her to squeal her anger. To wake up swinging, pissed at the intrusion.
But she doesn’t move.
“Baby?” I whisper and shake her shoulder. “Little baby?”
I scoop her up in just one hand and bring her closer. And while Fletch’s fingers instantly go to her neck in search of a pulse, I focus on her face. On her closed eyes. Her tiny tuft of hair.
She’s wrapped in a blanket and tucked in so tight, she doesn’t get to move even if she wanted to. But the longer she takes, the harder it is for my heart to beat. For my blood to move in my veins. For my hands to remain steady and strong.
“I feel it.” Fletch’s words burst out of him on a breath of relief. “She’s warm. She’s alive.”
My eyes drop to her chapped lips. Her tiny, pointed jaw. But my lips curl up when she pokes her tiny tongue out and whimpers in her sleep.
“Fuck.” Exhaling, I bring her to my chest and press her cheek to my heart. “Shit, Fletch.”
“She’s alive.” Taking out his cell, he turns back to the door to secure the room and call in the medics. “Let’s get her outta here.”
* * *
“How’d you know?” Not cuffed, not in trouble, Stan relaxes back with his ass on the hood of my cruiser and his arms wrapped around the tiny baby who’ll, for now, be legally his.
The authorities will declare the child was born, and in my position as investigating detective, I’ll vouch that Stan is the father, just like Melissa said.
Personally, I don’t think he is. I think Anton is, and the moment Melissa realized she was pregnant, she went into a tailspin and made it her mission to bring a better man into the baby’s life.
She didn’t want a child with Anton. And Anton’s response afterward, not even realizing the child was his, proves exactly why she needed to get out of that situation.
First, she tried with Carlton. But he was a little too rough. A little too scary. So then she found Stan. He stepped up, he did the right thing. He was the perfect candidate for a desperate woman.
And in the end, she chose right. Because he’ll do whatever he needs to do to make his child safe.
“How’d I know to follow you?” I sit on the hood beside him and look down at the baby the medics have cleared for a few minutes with her father.
She’ll go to the hospital soon. She’ll stay in for a few days to make sure everything is fine, and when it’s all done and she has a birth certificate, I know whose name will be on it.
“I know guys like you,” I tell him. “I knew you’d find her no matter the cost, so I kept you in my pocket and on a tight leash. Doesn’t mean I went soft,” I add with a chuckle. “I didn’t leave the work up to you. But I’ve been at this long enough to keep eyes on your movements. You proved me right.”
“And what would’ve happened if I killed them?” He runs his fingers along the bridge of her nose. His pinky across her chin. “What then?”
“I hoped you wouldn’t. You’re working really fucking hard not to be a screwup, so I figured I’d have a minute before you took that step.”