A mechanical voice cut through the line. “One minute remaining.”
Sissy’s breath hitched. “Naomi—Richard’s family. Do they know? About the baby?”
Naomi’s stomach dropped. “We believe they do.”
A sharp intake of breath sounded. Then Sissy was crying again—harder this time, the sound raw and panicked.
“They can’t be near her.” Sissy’s voice rose. “Do you hear me? They can’t be anywhere near my baby.”
Naomi’s pulse quickened. “Sissy?—”
“They’re not good people, Naomi. You have to promise me. You have to keep them away from her.”
Naomi froze at her words. “What do you mean? Sissy, what?—?”
“This call will end in ten seconds.”
“Please.” Sissy’s voice broke. “Just promise me?—”
“Thank you for using?—”
The line went dead.
Naomi stood in the hallway, phone still pressed to her ear, staring at the blank screen.
They’re not good people.
The words echoed in her mind, sharp and urgent, but without context. Without explanation.
What had Sissy meant? What did she know about Richard’s family that Naomi didn’t?
Micah took another bite of his sandwich and had to stop himself from making an appreciative sound.
The chicken salad really was good—perfectly seasoned, with just the right amount of crunch from celery and a hint of something he couldn’t quite place. Dill, maybe. Or tarragon.
He looked up at Ruby and nodded. “You are a great cook.”
Ruby’s face lit with a grin. “Well, thank you. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Secret ingredients are a little bit of lemon juice and some Dijon mustard.”
“It tastes amazing.”
She looked pleased as she turned back to the counter, wrapping up the leftovers.
Micah’s mind drifted to the phone call Naomi had just told them about. To the way Naomi’s face had gone pale when she told them what Sissy said about Richard’s family.
They’re not good people.
He didn’t like the sound of that.
Right now, Naomi sat across from him, her sandwich barely touched. She stared at nothing, clearly still processing everything. He saw it in the way her fingers drummed lightly against the table, in the way her jaw stayed tight.
“Can we even take Grace to see her?” Naomi asked finally, looking up at him. “In jail, I mean. Is that allowed?”
Micah set his sandwich down and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Technically, yes. Most facilities allow supervised visitation for minors, including infants. But it’s not simple. You’d need approval from child services. Karen would have to sign off on it. And the jail would have conditions—what you canbring, how long the visit can last, whether Grace can be held or just viewed through glass.”
Naomi’s brow furrowed. “So it’s possible.”
“It’s possible.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “But I wouldn’t rush into that decision.”
