“I mean it. If you’re still here, I’ll tell the police you withheld contact from a missing child’s mother.”
That got them moving.
At the clinic, Dr. Evans examined Hope and said she seemed healthy—just a little underweight. She asked careful questions. I gave careful answers. I showed her the note, the supplies, the jacket.
She asked if I had family support.
I almost laughed.
“I have coffee and my work colleagues,” I said.
She gave me a sad smile. “Sometimes that’s how it starts.”
By noon, I had temporary emergency paperwork from a social worker named Denise—and three missed calls from Paul, which I deleted without listening.
By two, I was back at the diner. Because the mortgage didn’t care about tragedy.
I brought Hope with me. Denise had told me not to leave her with anyone I didn’t trust—and trust had become a very short list.
My boss, Lena, took one look at the baby carrier behind the register and said, “You have exactly thirty seconds before you tell me what on earth happened.”
I told her enough.
She pressed a hand to her chest. “Jodi.”
“I know.”
