Page 29 of His Daughter

I pressed my palms flat against the desk. "Thank you, Graham."

He lingered for a half-second — a pause so brief most people would miss it, like a word caught behind his teeth — and then he nodded and left.

The file arrived in my inbox nineteen minutes later.

I opened it at my desk with the door closed and the city darkening outside the windows.

Everything was present. The baby's medical records listed birth date, weight, and health screenings. Then a photograph — small, slightly blurred, agency-stamped. In it, a baby's face turned slightly away, eyes closed, wrapped tightly in a white blanket.

My baby. My daughter.

The words were foreign in my mouth and true in my bones. I stared at the photograph until the screen dimmed, then I touched the trackpad and stared at it again.

I scrolled down. Intended adoptive mother.

Thea Walker (née Calloway).

My hand stopped on the mouse. I read the name again. A third time. The letters didn't rearrange.

Thea Walker (née Calloway). The woman from the conference room, the nonprofit, the dinner, the bar, the rain, the corner where I kissed her, and where she kissed me back. She was the woman who fell asleep in my bed and left in the morning. The woman whose name I saved in my phone and never called.

She was going to adopt my daughter. Before I knew the baby existed, this woman — this specific woman, out of every person in this city — was going to be her mother.

The coincidence was so staggering that my brain refused to process it. I sat at my desk and stared at her name on the screen. The office was silent, the city was dark, and none of it made sense. Not one piece of it.

I read further. Kira rescinded. The adoption fell through. The baby was returned to the birth mother's custody. After that, the agency's involvement ended. They didn't know where the baby was now.

I dropped back in my chair and pressed my hands over my face. Where was she? Where was my child right now, tonight?

But the file had Thea’s address. It was a starting point. Maybe she knew something. Maybe she had a number, a contact, or a thread I could pull. I couldn't sit here. I couldn't stare at this screen for one more minute while my daughter was somewhere in this city, and I didn't know where.

I grabbed my jacket and my keys. I was in the elevator before the thought was fully formed and in the car before the doors closed behind me. I pulled into traffic and drove. The address was across the city. I didn't call ahead. I didn't plan. I just drove.

It was dark and raining when I pulled up to the house. A simple place. A porch. A small yard. I got out. The rain hit me immediately — cold, steady, soaking through my jacket in seconds. I ran up the porch steps and knocked on the door.

The door opened.

Thea Calloway stood on the other side. Her hair was down. She was wearing a T-shirt and leggings, bare feet on the hardwood, and her dark eyes were wide. I saw the recognition flash across her face — the shock, the confusion, the way her lips parted.

She didn't step aside. She stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, her body blocking the entrance. Rain dripped from my hair onto my collar. My hand found the edge of the door, holding it open, and I locked eyes with her.

"Where is my daughter?"

NINE

THEA

Have you ever felt like your life was a series of recurring nightmares? Like you’re not really present in your body. And when things happen, you kind of have to check for feeling in your hands and legs.

That’s exactly how I felt.

But I didn’t deserve to feel that way. The baby wasn’t mine. Ironic, wasn’t it? Declan Hale, the one man I couldn’t have, had the one thing I wanted the most in the world, and there was nothing I could do about it.

My head bobbed as I swallowed. I finally spoke. "Take your hand off my door."

He didn't move.

"Take your hand off my door, Declan."