Chapter 5: The Woman at the Door
Daniel looked at me.
I looked at the door.
"Not yet," I said quietly.
He crossed to the door and opened it six inches, positioning himself in the gap.
"She's resting," he said.
"The doctor said no visitors."
My mother's face appeared in the narrow space.
She looked exactly the way she always looked — concerned, gentle, slightly wounded at being kept out.
"Daniel, I'm her mother.
I just want to see that she's all right."
"She's all right."
"The baby—"
"Is being monitored."
A pause.
My mother's eyes moved past Daniel's shoulder, found me in the bed.
"Rachel." Her voice softened further.
"Baby, I need to see you."
I said nothing.
Something shifted in her expression.
Just for a moment — a tightening around the eyes, a flicker of calculation behind the concern — before the warmth settled back into place.
"Daniel," she said.
"I understand you're upset.
We all are.
What Diane did was—"
"Was what?" Daniel said.
She blinked.
"Was what, exactly?" he repeated.
"Say it.
What did Diane do?"
"She lost her temper.
It was wrong.
I've already spoken to her—"
"She kicked a six-month pregnant woman in the stomach."
"It was—"
"Say the word.
Say what it was."
My mother's mouth closed.
Opened.
"It was an accident."
Daniel nodded slowly, like a man filing something away.
"We'll talk later," he said.
"When Rachel's doctor says she can have visitors."
He closed the door.
He stood with his hand on the handle for a moment, then turned and looked at me.
"She didn't ask about the baby once," I said.
"She said 'the baby' as a way to get through the door.
But she didn't ask if she was okay.
She didn't ask what the doctors said.
She didn't ask her name."
Daniel sat down.
"Her name," he said quietly.
"We told them at Christmas.
We told the whole family her name was going to be Lily."
He didn't respond.
He was already on his phone, typing.
Our lawyer's name was Patricia Howe.
She was sixty-one, sharp, and had handled my husband's family's estate matters for years.
When Daniel called, she picked up on the second ring despite the hour.
I listened to his side of the conversation.
The bloodwork.
The tin.
Kayla's call.
The name Dr.
Mercer.
A long silence on the other end.
Then Patricia's voice, clear enough that I could catch it from across the room:
"Don't touch anything else in that house until I get someone there.
And Daniel — don't let her family know what you've found.
Not yet.
Let them think you're grieving and confused.
Can you do that?"
"Yes," Daniel said.
"Good.
Because if what you're describing is accurate, we are not dealing with a family argument.
We are dealing with something that will require a very different kind of response."
She paused.
"I'll make a call tonight.
There's a name I want to run."
"Dr.
Mercer?" Daniel said.
Another silence.
"Where did you hear that name?"
Daniel looked at me.
"A witness," he said.
"Someone who was there."
Patricia's voice, when it came back, was quieter.
May you like
"I know that name, Daniel.
And if it's the same person I'm thinking of — this is bigger than your in-laws."
