Then she turned and walked away.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept seeing those babies.
Their faces.
Their hair.
The way Emily had protected them from the dust blowing across the road.
The next morning, I hired a private investigator named David Reynolds.
“Find everything,” I told him.
Three days later, he called.
His voice sounded different.
Serious.
Concerned.
“Michael,” he said quietly, “you need to sit down.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did you find?”
“Eleven months ago, Emily checked into a county hospital while pregnant.”
I froze.
Pregnant.
