Page 31 of His Daughter

"In what capacity?"

I could feel Declan’s eyes on me. "He's a business contact. His foundation funds the nonprofit I run."

Vasquez wrote it down. Her partner — his badge said Jones — moved toward the kitchen. "Sir, I'll need your statement separately. Please follow me."

Declan pushed off the doorframe and followed Jones into the kitchen. The door didn't close all the way. Through the gap, I could hear the murmur of his voice.

Vasquez sat across from me and asked her questions. When did I hear the crying? What did I see when I opened the door? Was anyone else present? Did I see a vehicle? I answered each one. My voice was steady. My hands were folded. I was doing the thing I always did, sitting inside the crisis without showing the seams.

"There was a note. It…it was tucked into the blanket. It said, 'She's yours now. I'm sorry.'"

"Do you still have it?"

I nodded. "It’s on the kitchen counter."

She wrote that down. Then she looked up from her notebook. "Ms. Calloway, you mentioned you recognized the baby. Can you explain what you mean by that?"

"I was in the process of adopting a baby through an agency. The adoption fell through three months ago when the birth mother changed her mind." I kept my voice level. "When I undressed the baby last night, I found a heart-shaped birthmark on the inside of her left wrist. The same birthmark described in the adoption file I'd been given. I believe this is the same child."

Vasquez's pen stopped. She studied me for a long moment. "You believe the baby left on your doorstep is the same baby you were in the process of adopting?"

"Yes."

"And knowing that, you kept her overnight without contacting authorities."

"I was in shock," I said again.

Vasquez held my gaze. Then she wrote something in her notebook and moved on.

From the kitchen, Declan's voice rose. I caught fragments — "my biological child," "never notified," and "my lawyers will confirm." He was on the phone now, pacing. I could hear his shoes on my kitchen tile, back and forth.

Child Protective Service (CPS) arrived an hour after the police. A woman stepped through my front door. She looked to be in her mid-forties, with tired eyes, a lanyard with her ID photo clipped to her jacket pocket. She shook my hand.

"Sandra Willetts, Child Protective Services. You're the homeowner?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"And the baby is still on the premises?"

"She's in the nursery."

Sandra set her bag on my coffee table and pulled out a clipboard. "I'll need to see the child and assess the living situation. I'll also need to speak with both of you."

Sandra spoke with Vasquez. Vasquez shared her notes. Sandra made a phone call — to the agency, I assumed, because I heard the words "Bright Horizons," "birth mother," and "biological father" come through in her calm, professional tone. The dots connected one by one while strangers stood in my hallway, writing on clipboards and murmuring into phones.

Declan spoke to Sandra next. At some point, he handed his phone to her. I assumed he’d called his lawyer. Sandra listened to all of it from my kitchen.

"Mr. Hale, I understand your position, but CPS cannot release a child to a man claiming paternity without confirmation. A DNA test is required. Until the results come back, the baby will be placed in temporary CPS custody."

"How long?" Declan's voice was tight.

"Results from our certified lab typically take three to five business days. We'll expedite where we can."

"I want my own lab running the test. I can have results in twenty-four hours."

Sandra looked at him. "You're welcome to run your own test, Mr. Hale, but CPS requires results from our certified lab before we release custody. That's the process."

His hand gripped the back of my kitchen chair. His knuckles were white. He didn’t say anything else.