“Do you want to sit down?” Harold asked Morgan.
He sat, then Harold and Rowan on one sofa, Morgan beside me, Gabbi sucking on her bottle. Morgan ignored the toast and coffee I’d set in front of him, his whole focus pinned to whatever was coming next.
Rowan began to talk. No theatrics, no pressure—just quiet, careful tact as she laid out what she’d found through her contacts.
“Annie Calder—deceased,” she said. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She paused when Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, but he didn’t give any other reaction.
“Because the death was unexpected, the police are handling it as a mandatory investigation. The coroner has taken charge—autopsy, toxicology tests, and the formal time-of-death assessment are all in progress, but likely to take a while.”
Rowan kept her voice even, steady. “The apartment was sealed and processed. No signs of a struggle. Evidence consistent with accidental overdose was found nearby. Neighbors reported no shouting or disturbance beforehand, though Annie was seen earlier in the week with someone known to addiction services. They’re following up on that, but there’s nothing pointing to foul play at this stage.”
“Initial forensic estimates, and this is not official, place the time of death at approximately five hours prior to the camera’s recording of Morgan entering the building; however, the coroner will provide the definitive determination.”
Rowan kept her tone steady and respectful. “Law enforcement is aware that Mr. Armitage exited the premises with the infant,” she said. “However, there is an administrative concern noted by the responding officers: the issue of Corporal Armitage not reporting what he found upon discovering the scene. My contact has emphasized that, given the circumstances and his immediate focus on the infant’s welfare, this is being treated as a procedural lapse rather than a criminal act.” A flash of hope crossed Morgan’s face when he glanced at me. “However, he may be asked for a formal statement in the coming days. Additionally, my contact has acknowledged that Corporal Armitage is the biological father and, as an experienced veteran, acted to remove the child from a potentially unsafe environment.”
“What if I’m not?” Morgan whispered. To me, not to Harold or Rowan.
“Not what?” I asked, confused.
“Not the biological father. She said I was, but what if I’m not? Her parents always hated me—and if Gabbi isn’t mine… even if she is… I don’t have anything to fight them with. And should I fight? What can I give her? I don’t have anything, I?—”
“Hey,” I cut in gently, before he spiraled any further. “You’re not doing this alone. You’ve got people on your side—right now, today, in this room.”
“You don’t even know me,” he snapped, the words rough and fast, as if he regretted them the second they left his mouth. He sank back into the sofa, curling around Gabbi as if someone might walk in and rip her out of his arms. His knuckles wentwhite where he held her. Her tiny fingers brushed his shirt, oblivious.
Harold didn’t take offense. He never did. The man could be insulted in three languages and still respond as if someone were asking him the time.
“Mr. Armitage,” he said matter-of-factly, adjusting his glasses, “the next step is straightforward. We will organize a paternity test—a simple blood test that the doctor here can do, along with a swab from the baby. It’s routine, not invasive, and it protects you as well as the child.”
Morgan swallowed hard. I could see the panic trying to claw its way back in.
Harold continued smoothly, “Once that’s in motion, I file a notice of representation. That prevents any outside party—family or otherwise—from making a legal move regarding custody without first going through me. As long as you are here at Guardian Hall, Gabbi remains with you.”
Rowan nodded. “We already have the paperwork prepped. And while the police complete their procedure, there’s no indication they intend to question your parental care or remove her. My contact made that clear.”
Morgan blinked at them both, listening.
I made sure I was within his field of vision. “You’re not losing her today, or tomorrow. And not without one hell of a fight—your fight or ours.”
“Annie’s parents didn’t want anything to do with their daughter,” he said, voice unsteady, “but… they might want to see Gabbi? I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to hope for.”
Harold closed his notebook with a softsnap, the signal that the meeting was officially over. “Rowan, I’ll need you to follow up with your contact regarding the timeline for the coroner’spreliminary report. And get me the neighbor statements in writing if possible.”
Rowan nodded, already pulling out her phone to make notes.
Harold rose, smoothing his cardigan. “I’ll speak with Marcus on my way out. We’ll arrange the paternity test for later today and confirm the chain of custody for the samples. Morgan, you’ll be updated the moment anything changes.”
He gave Morgan a calm, steady look, offered his hand, which Morgan shook—and then he and Rowan left the room, the door clicking shut behind them.
Silence descended again. Morgan stared at the door for a long beat, still clutching Gabbi, then glanced at me. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Now what?”
I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—the fact he was suddenly looking to me for answers, or the low tug in my chest at the idea of stepping up. I wasn’t supposed to be part of any of this, but watching him curl around his daughter, terrified someone might take her… yeah. Something inside me locked in. I wanted to protect this baby. And him. The thought hit hard, unexpected, and a little disorienting, but there it was all the same.
But he was right.
Now what?
