Even with my head a blur of confusion, my profile on this case would steer my law enforcement colleagues to a criminal entity that has members capable of befriending mothers-to-be so they can steal their babies from their wombs and sell them to the highest bidder.
I freeze as a thought too disturbing to consider pulsates through the sludge.
“Macy said Cameron’s name while she was fighting for her life. More than once.” The words flow from my mouth with as much conviction now as they did when I told Cameron I was in love with Macy. “She wouldn’t have done that unless it was urgent. Jealousy doesn’t guide Macy’s motives. Ever.”
Alex nods first, and then a collective whirr of agreeing murmurs follows his lead.
“Cameron’s stomach also folded. She stood up to me. She pressed herself right against me”—I pat on the area of my stomach where our bodies collided when she tried to intimidate me into backing down—“but her stomach didn’t wiggle against me. It folded. It fucking folded.” Once I discover one truth, the deluge continues. “Her stomach was also the same size last night as it was in surveillance footage from eight weeks ago. She said she was five months along, so she shouldn’t have had a bump in the footage.”
Agent Markwell is coordinating with on-scene agents to bring Cameron in, but I still feel like I have to prove myself and earn their trust. “I think Cameron had something to do with Macy’s assault. She arrived at the Lamaze class after Samuel announced it was free of agents, but neither her name nor her alias was on any of the class lists. They attacked Macy in the parking lot of her building minutes after I told Cameron I loved Macy.”
“Keep going,” my father encourages, stepping closer. “Give us what we need to bring the people who did this to Macy to justice, and then go back to doing everything you can to bring your family home.”
The worry lines etched on his face are deeper. However, his eyes still hold the same steady, unwavering control they’ve always had.
This is him. Protective. Brave. He isn’t the antagonist Cameron painted him to be.
He can’t be.
“Cameron sent messages during our fight. One was after she realized I had joined the bureau, and the second time was after I admitted I loved Macy.” My voice chokes during my last three words. This is my fault. Macy is fighting for her life because of me. “Love,” I correct, not wanting any dishonesty to stain this investigation. “I said IloveMacy.” A memory smacks into me so hard and fast it staggers me back a step. “Cameron said that it’s embarrassing to have a child without a partner. That if we were meant to procreate by ourselves, it wouldn’t require parts of a mananda woman.”
Alex steers this investigation toward a slam-dunk conviction. “The victims we’ve recovered thus far were all going it alone. There were no father details cited on their birth plans or in their medical records.” He directs his eyes to me. “This could be how she excuses her actions. If she believes the victims are unworthyof the child they’re carrying, she’d feel no guilt taking them and giving them to someone she deems worthier.” He hesitates for barely a second before he asks, “Does that profile match Cameron? Is that someone she could be?”
I want to say no. I want to protect Cameron as I failed to do years ago, but alarms scream too loudly to ignore. So instead, I nod.
Alex matches my gesture, wordlessly thanking me for my honesty, before he issues orders to Markwell and Adeline. They resemble the ones Markwell gave earlier, but with a personal edge that only someone who cares deeply about Macy can issue. He even assigns tasks to Brandon and Crew, uncaring that they’re not a part of the bureau. They’re my family, and to Alex, that’s good enough.
In a matter of minutes, the corridor goes from a bustling hive of activity to dead silent. A baby’s faint coo is the only sound, along with the occasional uncomfortable swallow from the nursing assistant, who feels out of her depth.
She’s not the only one struggling.
My lungs are screaming for air like my head is being held underwater, and I’ve never felt more helpless.
My father registers my fight in an instant. He requests the nurse to give us a minute before he approaches me without a snick of hesitation crossing his face.
For a brief second, I consider maintaining my anger, to deny his wordless offer of help, but I can’t. I’m drowning, and the pain is so much that I can’t catch my breath.
I gasp in a sharp breath when he bundles me up in a hug like the night I fell out of my treehouse and broke my collarbone. I was seven then, and he issued promises similar to the ones I gave Macy’s son earlier. He told me he’d never let anything bad happen to me, and he never did.
The treehouse looked more like a prison than a clubhouse when he installed a dozen safety rails to ensure I’d never fall again.
He’s protected me for years, so when he tightens his grip around my shoulders, I let him share the weight of the burden I’m carrying, while also praying his suit jacket will soak up the handful of salty blobs I can no longer hold back.
38
MACY
“She’ll wake when she’s ready. She’s breathing on her own for the first time in two weeks, and we removed all the medical equipment and wires. She’s ready to wake; she might just need more time to trust her body to continue the recovery process on its own.”
Is she talking about me?
If so, why is this the first time I’ve breathed on my own in two weeks?
What happened?
Desperate for answers, I beg my eyes to open. The more I fight, the more I drift between a space that feels like sleep but not the reviving kind I usually seek. It’s hard to explain. Although I inhabit my body, it feels foreign, as if I’ve borrowed it for the day.
A faint whisper accompanies my journey through the dark. “We will continue lowering the sedatives keeping her under throughout the morning. She’ll return to you soon…”
