Chapter 8 - The Child We Buried
Our first son, Caleb, lived twenty-one days.
Doctors called his death sudden respiratory failure.
There had been no warning.
Claire had been alone with him when it happened.
For three years, I blamed myself for not being there.
Rebecca obtained the records that afternoon.
One detail stood out.
Caleb had unusually high levels of a sedative in his blood.
At the time, doctors attributed it to medication used during treatment.
Rebecca disagreed.
“The dosage recorded doesn’t match the blood concentration.”
I could not speak.
“There may be a medical explanation.”
“Don’t.”
“Daniel.”
“Don’t soften it.”
She went quiet.
I stared at a photograph of Caleb beside my desk.
He had Claire’s nose.
My chin.
Tiny fingers curled around mine.
“What are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you his case deserves another look.”
My entire body shook.
I had spent years mourning an accident.
Now I was wondering if I had buried a murder victim.
That evening, I returned home.
Claire greeted me with champagne.
“Good news.”
I looked at the bottle.
“What are we celebrating?”
“The boys finally slept three hours.”
She laughed.
“That qualifies as a miracle.”
I watched her pour two glasses.
Then I remembered Boston.
My dizziness.
The water Claire handed me.
I took the glass.
“Cheers.”
Claire drank.
I pretended to.
Later, when she showered, I poured my champagne into a sample container Rebecca had given me.
Then I searched Claire’s closet.
Nothing.
Her bathroom cabinet.
Nothing.
Her desk.
Nothing.
I almost stopped.
Then I noticed one drawer sat slightly higher than the others.
I removed it.
Underneath was a burner phone.
My hands began shaking.
The phone required a passcode.
I tried our anniversary.
Wrong.
Claire’s birthday.
Wrong.
Then I thought of Caleb.
His birthday worked.
I nearly dropped the phone.
Messages filled the screen.
Most were between Claire and Marcus.
One message had been sent that morning.
FRIDAY CONFIRMED.
Another followed.
DOSE D AT 8:30.
EVENT BY 9:15.
TRANSFER CHILDREN AT 9:40.
Then Claire had written one final sentence.
MAKE SURE MARA’S PRINTS ARE ON THE BOTTLE.
I heard the shower stop.
I replaced the phone.
Closed the drawer.
And stood just as Claire entered the bedroom.
She smiled.
“What are you doing?”
May you like
I smiled back.
“Looking for you.”
