Chapter 3 - The Baby With No Birth Record
I did not accept Vincent’s offer that day.
I also did not reject it.
That bothered me more.
For the next twenty-four hours, I tried to live normally.
I saw patients.
I lectured two residents about dehydration.
I ate half a granola bar while standing over a chart.
I called my mother three times and hung up before the first ring ended.
Then, at 2:11 the following morning, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I heard Noah crying through the voicemail notification that arrived twenty seconds later.
Rachel.
Vincent’s voice.
Please.
That one word made the decision.
I called him back.
“What’s happening?”
“He woke up screaming. He vomited once. He’s sweating.”
“Temperature?”
“Normal.”
“Is he responsive?”
“Yes.”
“Any blood?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“Boston.”
I sat up in bed.
“You’re still here?”
“I didn’t want to leave until you decided.”
“Bring him to Merritt.”
Twenty minutes later, Noah arrived through the private ambulance bay.
I met him in a treatment room.
He was pale.
Too pale.
He cried weakly when I examined him, then went strangely quiet.
His abdomen was soft.
No obvious obstruction.
No fever.
No respiratory distress.
But his blood pressure was lower than I liked.
I ordered labs.
Glucose.
Electrolytes.
Lactate.
Ammonia.
Liver enzymes.
Urinalysis.
Metabolic panel.
Vincent stood in the corner, silent.
A nurse inserted the IV.
Noah barely protested.
That scared me.
“Has he ever been this lethargic?”
“No.”
The first results came back.
His glucose was low.
His lactate was elevated.
His liver enzymes were mildly abnormal.
Not catastrophic.
But not normal.
I ordered dextrose and fluids.
Within twenty minutes, Noah opened his eyes.
Within forty, he began reaching for my stethoscope.
Vincent sat down heavily.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the episodes may be metabolic.”
“Halpern said his metabolic screening was normal.”
“Newborn screening?”
“He doesn’t have one.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Noah wasn’t born in a hospital.”
“Where was he born?”
Vincent hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
I stared at him.
“You don’t know where your son was born?”
“He was brought to us.”
Every instinct in me went cold.
“By who?”
“Isabella.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“Explain.”
Vincent looked toward the nurses.
I understood.
“Conference room. Now.”
Ten minutes later, he told me the truth.
Or at least more of it.
Nine months earlier, Isabella had disappeared for forty-eight hours.
She returned to their home carrying a newborn.
No hospital bracelet.
No discharge papers.
No birth certificate.
She told Vincent the baby belonged to a young woman who was in danger.
A woman who could not safely keep him.
“She asked me to trust her,” Vincent said.
“And you did.”
“Yes.”
“You never asked whose baby he was?”
“I asked every day.”
“What did she say?”
“That if I knew, I would put him at greater risk.”
I rubbed both hands over my face.
“You legally adopted him?”
“Eventually.”
“How?”
“Lawyers.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the answer you’re going to get right now.”
I glared at him.
He didn’t look away.
“So Isabella brought home a newborn with no records, told you nothing, and you simply became his father.”
“Yes.”
“Then she died.”
“Six months later.”
“And now someone may be targeting Noah.”
“Yes.”
“Because of who his mother is?”
“Possibly.”
I stood.
“You need the police.”
“I have police.”
“No, you have men in suits.”
“I have both.”
“And you don’t trust either.”
“No.”
That was the first honest thing he had said in ten minutes.
I looked through the glass at Noah.
He was asleep now.
Stable.
Safe for the moment.
I thought of the letter from my mother.
Who is Noah’s biological mother?
“Vincent.”
“Yes?”
“Show me everything.”
His expression changed.
“That means?”
“It means I’ll consult.”
Relief hit him so hard he almost smiled.
“For six months?”
“I said consult. I did not say move into your mansion.”
“Fine.”
“And you don’t pay my debts.”
“Rachel—”
“No. You pay me a normal consulting fee through the hospital. No gifts. No cars. No secret financial rescue.”
He looked almost offended.
“I was trying to make your life easier.”
“You were trying to make it harder for me to say no.”
He paused.
“Fair.”
“And I get full access to Noah’s records.”
“Yes.”
“Everything Isabella had.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
“And no surveillance on me.”
He looked away.
My eyes narrowed.
“Vincent.”
“There’s protective surveillance.”
“Cancel it.”
“That is not safe.”
“For who?”
“You.”
I laughed once.
“You are unbelievable.”
“Someone broke into your apartment last night.”
My entire body went still.
“What?”
“Nothing was taken.”
“How do you know?”
“My people saw him.”
I stepped toward him.
“You had people outside my apartment?”
“Yes.”
“After I told you to stay out of my life?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to hit him.
Instead, I said, “Who broke in?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did you call police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the intruder wasn’t searching for valuables.”
“What was he searching for?”
Vincent removed his phone.
On the screen was a photograph taken through my apartment window.
My desk drawers were open.
My files were scattered.
And on the floor was the framed childhood picture of me and my father.
The glass had been smashed.
The photograph was gone.
My knees weakened.
“What else?”
“One thing.”
“What?”
Vincent swiped.
Another photo appeared.
Someone had written a message on my bathroom mirror in black marker.
STOP ASKING WHO THE MOTHER IS.
I stared at it.
Then I looked through the glass wall at Noah.
The baby was sleeping peacefully under a warm blanket.
May you like
For the first time, I understood something Vincent had understood before me.
Noah’s medical condition was not the only thing that could kill him.
