Chapter 9
Her name was Monica Reed.
Detective Sloan showed me an old employee photograph.
There was no doubt.
Monica had delivered the flowers.
“She worked with Dr. Vale?” I asked.
“For five years.”
“Why would she help Damon?”
“We don't know.”
Dad stared at the card.
“Find her.”
Police searched the hospital.
Monica was already gone.
Security footage showed her leaving through the parking garage eight minutes after delivering the flowers.
But she made one mistake.
She used her own car.
By afternoon, police had an address.
Detective Sloan wanted me moved to another floor.
Dad wanted me moved to another hospital.
My doctor refused.
“Claire's blood pressure is unstable. Moving her without medical reason creates more risk.”
So security was doubled.
Dad stayed beside me.
At 6:40 p.m., Detective Sloan returned.
They had found Monica.
She hadn't run.
She had gone home.
“She wants immunity,” Sloan said.
“For what?”
“She says she knows exactly what Damon planned after the birth.”
My entire body tightened.
“What?”
“She won't talk without an attorney.”
Dad looked ready to break something.
Two hours later, Sloan called us from another room.
Monica had begun talking.
She admitted changing clinic records.
She admitted helping Damon delete consent forms.
She admitted knowing I had never agreed to use Aaron Blake as a donor.
Then she explained the flowers.
“Damon didn't send them,” Sloan said.
“Then why sign his name?”
“Elaine paid Monica to deliver them.”
My eyes closed.
“Why?”
“To frighten you into believing Damon could reach you from jail.”
Dad stood.
“That woman is insane.”
Sloan continued.
“Elaine hoped fear would increase your blood pressure.”
I stared at her.
The meaning arrived slowly.
“She wanted me to go into labor.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Damon had prepared documents around the expected delivery.”
I swallowed.
“What documents?”
“A temporary guardianship request.”
Dad shook his head.
“That wouldn't work while he's in jail.”
“Not anymore.”
“Anymore?”
Sloan sat across from me.
“Before his arrest, Damon expected Claire to be hospitalized after giving birth.”
I felt sick.
“He thought the medication would make me unstable.”
“Yes.”
“And Elaine would help?”
“Yes.”
Sloan showed us a copy of an unsigned petition.
It claimed I had become paranoid during pregnancy.
That I had threatened Damon.
That I suffered delusions about infidelity.
That I was unable to safely care for a newborn.
Every lie matched something Damon had been creating.
The medication.
The notes about my moods.
The staged arguments.
The missing possessions.
He had even written that I frequently lost important objects.
Objects he had hidden in the storage unit.
“He was building a story.”
Dad nodded grimly.
“And you were supposed to look like the villain.”
I thought about every time Damon had called me forgetful.
Every time he had asked if I remembered conversations that never happened.
Every time he told friends I was “emotional lately.”
He had been rehearsing the lie in public.
“What happens now?” I asked.
Sloan looked at me.
“Now he has a much harder problem.”
“What?”
“You survived his plan.”
For the first time in days, I smiled.
It wasn't happiness.
It was determination.
That evening, my attorney arrived with divorce papers.
I signed every page.
My hand didn't shake once.
Dad watched silently.
When I finished, he kissed my forehead.
“Your mother would be proud.”
I started crying.
“I wish she were here.”
“So do I.”
At midnight, contractions started.
At first, I thought they were stress.
Then another came.
Stronger.
Dad called the nurse.
Within minutes, doctors were surrounding me.
“Claire, you're in labor.”
“No.”
The doctor looked at the monitor.
“Yes.”
“It's too early.”
“Thirty-seven weeks is early term. Your baby has a very good chance of doing well.”
Another contraction hit.
I grabbed Dad's hand.
Fear rushed through me.
Not fear of birth.
Fear of everything Damon had attached to it.
The trust.
The court papers.
His obsession.
Dad saw it.
“Forget him.”
“I can't.”
“Yes, you can.”
He leaned close.
“This moment belongs to you and your daughter. Damon doesn't get one inch of it.”
I nodded through tears.
Hours passed.
The sun rose.
Then, at 8:17 a.m., I heard the strongest sound in the world.
My daughter's cry.
The nurse placed her against my chest.
She was tiny.
Warm.
Perfect.
I sobbed.
Dad cried openly.
“She's beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“What are you naming her?”
I looked at her face.
A name came instantly.
“Hope.”
Dad smiled.
“Hope.”
For several minutes, nothing else mattered.
Then Detective Sloan appeared quietly at the doorway.
I knew from her expression that something had happened.
“What?”
She stepped inside.
“I'm sorry to bring this here.”
“Tell me.”
“Damon found out you gave birth.”
My arms tightened around Hope.
“How?”
“We're investigating.”
“What did he do?”
Sloan hesitated.
“He filed a petition from jail.”
Dad laughed in disbelief.
“For custody?”
“No.”
Her answer confused me.
“Then what?”
May you like
Sloan looked at the baby.
“He's claiming Hope isn't legally your daughter.”
