I looked at the black folder resting on the kitchen table. Inside it was my leverage, my protection, the only things keeping me from being thrown into a prison cell for a crime I didn’t commit. But across from me stood a man who was entirely unrecognizable—a man who had stolen a life, murdered his own upbringing, and was now holding my children hostage.
I grabbed the folder.
“Catch,” I muttered.
With all the strength I had left, I didn’t throw it to him—I hurled the heavy plastic folder straight at Chloe’s face. The corner struck her right above the eyebrow. She shrieked, dropping to her knees as loose papers, the Ziploc bag with the purple cap, and the medical receipts scattered across the linoleum floor.
In that split second of distraction, I bolted.
I didn’t run toward the front door; Richard was blocking it. Instead, I tore down the narrow hallway toward the fire escape at the back of the building.
“Isabel!” Richard roared behind me.
I slammed through the heavy window at the end of the hall, throwing myself out onto the cold iron grating of the Astoria fire escape. The May wind bit at my face, but adrenaline numbed the chill. I didn’t look down. I knew the drop was four stories of rusted metal and concrete.
I sprinted down the steps, my slippers slapping against the iron, nearly tripping twice. Behind me, I heard the window frame crash open. Richard’s heavy boots thudded onto the metal landing above me.
“Stop running! You’re only making it worse for the kids!” he screamed down the stairwell.
I didn’t answer. I reached the second-floor landing and leaped down the final emergency ladder, which dropped with a deafening metallic screech into the dark alleyway below. I hit the ground hard, pain shooting up my ankles, but I scrambled to my feet and ran toward the streetlights of Ditmars Boulevard.
I didn’t stop until I blended into the evening crowd of people leaving the restaurants and cafes. My breath came in ragged, painful gasps. I looked down at my hand. I had lost the black folder, but my fingers were still tightly gripping my cell phone.
I collapsed onto a public bench, my body trembling so violently I could barely type. I pulled up the text message from the unknown number. The audio file was still there.
With shaking hands, I plugged in my headphones, pressed play, and prayed to God there was a clue—anything—that could tell me how to save my children.
Eleanor’s raspy voice filled my ears once more, picking up exactly where it had cut off in the apartment.
“…He is not my son… but he wasn’t the only baby switched that night. The nurse who did it, she confessed to me before she died. She didn’t do it for money, Isabel. She did it out of spite. She switched three babies that night in Bellevue. Richard was one. The second one was the real heir to the estate he’s trying to steal.”
A gasp escaped my lips. I looked around the crowded street, suddenly terrified that every stranger passing by was watching me.
“And the third baby…” Eleanor’s voice grew weaker, a faint wheeze underlying her words. “The third baby was given to a family from Queens. A family named Vance. They named her Isabel.”
The world stopped spinning. The ambient noise of Astoria—the rumbling of the N-train overhead, the chatter of outdoor diners, the honking of yellow cabs—faded into a dead, suffocating silence.
Me.
I wasn’t just the targeted daughter-in-law. I was one of the switched babies.
“I kept the records,” Eleanor’s voice whispered, sounding as though she were speaking from beyond the grave. “The original birth certificates, the hospital logs, the nurse’s signed confession. It is all locked inside the columbarium niche at St. Michael’s Cemetery. Niche number 414. Behind my urn. You must get it before Richard figures out the connection. Because if he realizes who you really are, he won’t just frame you, Isabel. He will erase you.”
The audio file clicked, ending completely.
A shadow fell over the bench where I sat.
I snapped my head up, my heart leaping into my throat. Standing directly in front of me was a tall man in a dark suit. He wasn’t Richard. He wasn’t Marcus. He was a complete stranger, his face obscured by the brim of a hat, but his eyes were fixed entirely on me.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, laminated card, flashing it briefly so I could see the logo of the New York City Police Department—but the badge underneath it looked wrong. The metal was too dull, the engraving too shallow.
“Isabel Vance?” the man asked, his voice completely devoid of emotion. “Your husband just called in a report. He claims you took a large dose of your mother-in-law’s medication and fled the apartment in a state of psychosis. He’s very worried about the children. I’m going to need you to come with me right now.”
He stepped closer, his hand moving toward his waistline.
Behind him, across the busy street, I saw a black SUV pull up to the curb. The tinted window rolled down just an inch, and through the glass, I caught a glimpse of a familiar, terrified face pressed against the window.
It was my daughter, Lily. And next to her, a hand was gripping her tightly by the shoulder.
Leave a Comment