You look up. Naomi has the expression doctors wear when their anger is too disciplined to call itself anger. “Talk to me.”
Naomi closes the door. “Addie finally gave us a partial story. Their mother died three months ago. Official cause was accidental overdose. Addie does not believe that. The stepfather started drinking harder after the funeral, then bringing men to the house. Men who noticed things. Men who asked questions about Lily.”
A cold pressure begins behind your ribs.
“Questions like what?”
“Whether the baby had papers. Birth certificate, Social Security number, medical records. Whether anybody outside the family knew she existed.”
You understand suddenly, horribly.
Trafficking is a word most wealthy Americans keep filed under documentaries and charity galas. Something terrible, yes, but somewhere else. Someone else’s nightmare. But it is here now, with hospital wristbands and one child asleep under white blankets.
“Addie overheard him on the phone,” Naomi says quietly. “He was trying to sell the baby.”
You stand so fast the chair legs scrape the floor.
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