Chapter 2 - The Voice That Called From the Party

My finger stayed above Rachel Walsh's number until Sophie shifted against my chest.

Six days old. That was all she was. Six days, and I was considering how to leave a house where every gate had a camera and every driver answered to my husband.

I played the voicemail again.

A woman's voice, low and hurried, came through the speaker. "Mrs. Moretti, you don't know me. My name is Naomi Pierce. I work for Laya Crane. I heard her say she's arranged to take over your daughter's nursery tomorrow. She showed someone a paper with Mr. Moretti's signature and said you would be declared too unwell to object. Please don't mention this call to anyone at the party."

There was a scrape, another woman's distant laughter, and the message ended.

I sat down carefully. My stitches pulled when I moved too quickly. I had spent the evening worrying about a missed feeding and a late husband. Now a stranger was telling me someone had plans for my baby.

I wanted to believe the message was a cruel joke. But Naomi had known about the nursery. She had known about a signature. And Laya had spent months speaking of my daughter as though Sophie were a new possession acquired by the Moretti family, rather than a child whose mother was standing in front of her.

I called Rachel.

We had spoken once during my pregnancy, after Roman insisted that his security team should be allowed to read every message on my phone. Rachel was a family attorney in Milwaukee, independent of the lawyers Roman kept on retainer. At the time I'd been too frightened of upsetting him to do anything with her advice.

She answered on the fourth ring.

"Aaron?"

"I need help," I said. "Tonight."

I told her about Roman's dinner, the unanswered calls, and the voicemail. I did not try to make him sound worse than he was. I gave her the times. Nine-oh-three. Nine-thirty-one. Nine-forty-eight. Ten-oh-seven. I told her Sophie was safe and that I was still recovering.

"First," Rachel said, "are you and the baby in immediate danger?"

"I don't know. That's what frightens me."

"Then we're going to make decisions we can explain tomorrow in daylight. Don't destroy anything. Save the voicemail, and send a copy to my secure address. Do you have your identification and Sophie's discharge papers?"

"Yes."

"You are her mother. You can leave with her to a safe place. I want to notify the appropriate court promptly and arrange for both of you to be seen by a medical professional. No disappearing without a record. Do you understand?"

I looked at the small face sleeping against my collarbone.

"Yes."

Rachel asked whether there was anyone outside Roman's organization whom I trusted. I thought of my cousin Julia, who lived in a quiet apartment above her bookstore in Shorewood. We had barely spoken in months because Roman disliked her questions. She had nevertheless sent a hand-knitted hat when Sophie was born. It sat in the top drawer of the changing table.

Rachel called Julia herself. Ten minutes later she rang me back.

"Julia will be waiting. I'm coming, too. Don't use a Moretti car. I'll arrange a driver. If anyone stops you, call me immediately."

The practical instructions did something fear had not allowed. They gave me a sequence I could follow.

I set Sophie in her empty, firm bassinet on her back while I packed. Her pink sleep sack stayed zipped correctly. I gathered diapers, formula, clean bottles, the hospital discharge instructions, and the medication Dr. Keller had prescribed. Then I collected my own identification, bank card, a few comfortable clothes, and the notebook where I recorded Sophie's feeds.

My hands shook only when I reached for our marriage photograph.

Roman stood beside me on a sunlit terrace. He was smiling at something outside the frame. I remembered believing that smile belonged partly to me.

I left the photograph where it was.

At 10:39, Rachel texted that the car was two streets away. I waited until Sophie was secured properly in her infant seat. The nurse at the hospital had shown us how to fit the harness. Roman had spent that lesson on a telephone call.

The service gate was normally watched by a guard named Peter. He had seen me come through it for years with shopping bags and birthday flowers. Tonight I told him I was going for a medical visit and that my attorney had arranged transportation. He asked whether Mr. Moretti knew.

"He can speak to my attorney," I replied.

Peter looked at the baby seat, at my pale face, and at the rain collecting on my cardigan. Then he opened the gate. He did not offer to tell me I couldn't leave.

I have remembered that kindness more often than any of the expensive things Roman bought me.

Julia met us beneath an awning. Rachel arrived five minutes later with a folder and a face that was serious without being frightening. They helped me carry Sophie's bag upstairs. Nobody asked me to tell the story twice.

By midnight, Sophie was asleep in a borrowed bassinet prepared according to the discharge instructions. Rachel checked that I had food, water, and the doctor's emergency number. She photographed the voicemail information, retained the original on my phone, and began documenting why I had left.

"We aren't going to use a baby's safety as a weapon," she told me. "Not yours. Not Roman's. We are going to establish facts."

At 12:46, my phone lit up with Roman's name.

I let it ring. Rachel had already sent his attorney a message confirming that Sophie and I were safe and that any arrangements should go through her.

Across Milwaukee, Roman returned to an illuminated house. I learned the details later from the household manager's account. He went first to our bedroom, where he found my side of the bed untouched. Then he walked into the nursery.

The bassinet was empty. The rocking chair stood beside the window. The room was still set to seventy-two degrees.

He called for me. No answer.

He called again, louder. Then he saw the note I'd left on the changing table.

Sophie is safe with me. Do not send anyone to find us. Speak to Rachel Walsh. I need time and medical rest.

I had not written that I loved him. I had not written that I was coming back.

His first message arrived at 1:03.

"Aaron, where is my daughter?"

The second came a minute later.

"I didn't know you were leaving. Call me."

By 1:11, there were seven.

Then one final message appeared. It was shorter than the others.

"What did Laya tell you?"

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I stared at those words until the screen dimmed. I had not mentioned Laya in my note. Roman could have guessed, of course. But the speed of his question told me the woman at the party had not merely imagined a plan.

For the first time that night, I wondered what my husband had signed.