A cold knot tightened in my chest. “She gave it to him.”
“She withdrew the cash three hours after it hit her account,” Julian said. “Then she boarded the flight with Chloe and Mark. The booking was for a four-bedroom penthouse on Brickell Avenue.”
I looked down at the transaction logs, the black ink stark against the white page. The dates lined up with the day Maya had been discharged from the delivery room.
“How is she?” Julian asked, nodding toward the heavy double doors of the recovery ward.
“The fever is down,” I said. “But the doctor said she was hours away from slipping into a coma.”
Julian stood up and buttoned his heavy wool coat. “Get some rest, David. You need to be sharp for what comes next.”
He left the waiting room, his boots squeaking on the wet linoleum of the exit hallway.
I walked out of the hospital at five past five. The street was quiet, the sky a dark shade of bruised blue over the Brooklyn rooftops.
The yellow cab rattled over the Manhattan Bridge. The metal girders flashed past in the gray light, and I watched the dark water of the East River churn below us as the city slowly woke up.
The ride back to Park Slope cost forty-two dollars. I watched the driver’s meter click upward in the dim light of the dashboard.
When I opened the door to our apartment, the cold hit me like a physical wall. The radiators were freezing, and the air carried the stale smell of empty rooms and neglected plaster.
I walked down the narrow hallway to our bedroom.
The white wicker bassinet sat empty near our bed, its pale blue blanket folded over the side. The room felt completely abandoned.
I went into the kitchen. On the counter lay the handwritten note Eleanor had left for Maya, written in her elegant, aristocratic cursive, telling her not to play the victim because they had to leave for an urgent family matter.
The refrigerator door was still slightly ajar, the interior light casting a weak yellow glow across the empty shelves.
I went into my small office at the back of the apartment.
I sat at my desk and pulled the black security camera hard drive from the metal bracket under the low shelf. My hands were stiff from the cold.
While the laptop booted up, I checked the digital utility bill on my phone. An alert caught my eye.
There was a second phone line active on our family plan. It had been added three weeks ago, registered under Chloe’s name but billed directly to my credit card.
I wrote the ten-digit number down on a yellow legal pad.
The video player loaded, showing the gray grid of our living room from five days ago.
I dragged the cursor back to the afternoon after I left for Munich, watching the timestamp on the bottom of the screen.
The front door opened. Eleanor walked in first, her wool coat draped over her arm.
Mark followed her, carrying two blue plastic coolers. Chloe came last, twisting her heavy silver necklace around her finger as she looked around the room.
“They are moving fast,” I said aloud to the empty office.
My mother went straight to the kitchen. She did not look toward the nursery where Maya was resting after her surgery.
On the screen, Mark began pulling jars of baby food and bags of prescription formula from the pantry, stacking them into the coolers.
I remembered how Maya had insisted on that specific brand during her pediatric first-aid certification course, explaining how vital the nutrients were for a newborn.
I dialed Julian’s number, my hand tight around the phone.
“They took the baby’s prescription formula, Julian,” I said when he answered.
“Is it all on tape?” Julian asked.
“Every second of it,” I said. “They cleared the pantry, the refrigerator, even the backup cans in the nursery closet.”
“Keep downloading,” Julian said. “Do not touch the files until they are secure on a separate drive.”
On the screen, Mark laughed as he zipped the second cooler shut. He tapped his phone screen with his thumb, then nodded to Eleanor.
They walked out and shut the door behind them, leaving the apartment dark and empty.
My phone rang five minutes after the video finished transferring. The caller ID showed my mother’s name.
I slid the bar to answer.
“David,” Eleanor said. Her voice was sharp and fast, carrying the background noise of wind and distant Miami traffic. “Why is my card declined at the hotel front desk?”
“Because I froze the account,” I said.
