Page 25 of His Daughter

The supplies were still in the closet. Caleb and I bought them months ago — the diapers, the onesies, the tiny bottles, the baby wash that smelled like chamomile. Everything remained in its bags, tags still attached, waiting for a baby who never arrived.

I filled the bathroom sink with warm water and tested it with my elbow. I carried her to the sink, and she looked up at me — wide awake now, blinking, her small face open and curious.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay, sweetheart. I've got you."

I lowered her into the water. She flinched at first, then went still, her hands opening and closing in the warmth. I washed her gently — her arms, her legs, the soft folds of her neck, the bottoms of her tiny feet.

She watched me the whole time with those wide, unfocused eyes. I watched her back, and my vision blurred. I blinked, and the blur ran down my face and fell into the water.

I dried her with the softest towel I owned and dressed her in one of the onesies from the bag — white with small yellow stars. The onesie was slightly big on her. She swam in it. I rolled the sleeves up twice, and she grabbed my finger while I worked. The strength of her grip was astonishing for someone so small.

I fed her. Formula from the kit, warmed, tested on my wrist. When she finished, I held her up against my shoulder and patted her back the way the books said until she burped. The sound was so unexpectedly loud that I laughed.

I tucked her back in the crib. She was full, clean, and warm, and her eyes were getting heavy. I stood over her and watched her blink, slower and slower, until her lashes settled against her cheeks, and she was out.

I picked up the blanket from the floor and studied it. It was clearly expensive. It needed hand washing. I carried it to the kitchen sink and ran warm water over the fabric, gently working the rain out of it, turning it in my hands.

That's when I noticed the embroidery.

In the corner of the blanket, stitched in small, precise lettering, were three initials.

I turned off the water and held the blanket up to the light — DJH. I didn't recognize them. Was that the baby's name? An abbreviation? A brand?

I dried my hands on the dish towel, picked up my phone from the counter, and typed DJH into the search bar.

Nothing useful. A hardware store in Delaware. A dental practice in Houston.

I tried again. DJH initials. Nothing relevant still. I tried once more. DJH initials person.

The top result loaded. A headshot. A man's face, filling my screen. Angular jaw. Dark hair pushed back from a high forehead. Light-blue eyes staring directly into the camera.

My hand tightened around the phone.

Declan James Hale.

I stared at his face. The face from the conference room. The face across the candlelit table. The face above mine in the dark, his hand on my jaw, his mouth on mine, the rain on both of us.

No. That's…that's not possible.

I carried the phone down the hallway and into the nursery. She was sleeping on her back, her small fists resting on either side of her head.

I stood over the crib. "Open your eyes," I whispered. "Please. Just for a second."

She stirred. Her mouth moved. And then her eyes opened, an unfocused blink before they drifted shut again.

They were light blue. The same pale blue that stared at me from the phone screen.

The baby had his eyes.

I looked at his face on the screen, and then I looked at hers, and I knew.

EIGHT

DECLAN

"You have a daughter."

I laughed.