The infant’s cries came through the baby monitor, waking me as the clock on the bedside stand read 2:40. The darkness beyond the windows confirmed it was the middle of the night, or perhaps more accurately, the early morning.
At two weeks of age, Renee was waking every four to five hours, and although I was exhausted, the baby in the nursery next to our bedroom had already stolen my heart. Rolling out of bed, I left Byron—using our new names was the hardest part of this assignment—sleeping in our bed and made my way to the nursery.
Our new home was everything we’d been promised and more. With three bedrooms and two and a half baths, set in a quiet cul-de-sac in a picture-perfect neighborhood, it was a dream. Living in Mount Prospect, Illinois—a northwest suburb of Chicago, a suburb with the motto “Where friendliness is a way of life”—was nothing like our flat in South Chicago.
While it was still March and cold, there were neighbors out and about, walking dogs and shoveling sidewalks. Many even came to our door to welcome us to the neighborhood.
My cheeks were still bruised from the cosmetic surgery, as were my eyes. Thankfully, it was now more manageable and easier to conceal. My hair had been changed from brown to a darker black and cut into a popular style, longer in the front and shorter in the back. I missed my long hair, but admittedly with a newborn, this style was easier to manage.
The last two and a half weeks had been a whirlwind. Renee was born earlier than expected, in a small hospital in rural Wisconsin. I tried not to think too much about what happened, how they convinced the woman her child was deceased, or even where they came up with an infant’s body for her to hold.
As I reached down into the crib, the gold bracelet on my wrist reflected the illumination of the nightlight in the corner. I couldn’t explain what drew me to wear the bracelet. Maybe it was a tribute to the woman, a way for me to feel connected to her and her to Renee. She wanted it buried with her daughter. It only seemed right to keep it close to her daughter.
“There, there, my sweet Renee. Mommy has you,” I cooed, lifting her tiny body to my chest and supporting her small head. My fingers gently ran over her soft halo of blonde fuzz, so light it was almost invisible. “You’re so strong.” She arched her back and lifted her own head before allowing it to fall back to me.
In seconds she relaxed, no longer fussing as I hummed a lullaby I faintly recalled. Laying her upon the changing table, I continued talking, telling her what I didn’t want to forget, what I knew I couldn’t say when she was older.
“Renee, your real name is Araneae. We’re calling you Renee for short. I don’t know exactly why we were given you—other than you are a gift—but we believe it was to protect you. One day, you’ll be stronger and so smart. You won’t need us, but before that day, sweet girl, I’m here and so is your daddy. Always know you were loved.” I fought the urge to cry, thinking of the woman who would never hold her. I couldn’t change that, but I could let Renee know she was always wanted and always loved.
Byron had been able to piece together a hypothesis—his theory.
It was no secret that something big had gone down with an attorney in Chicago who did work for Allister Sparrow and Rubio McFadden. It was all over the news. The FBI raided his office and house. His name, Daniel McCrie, had scrolled along the bottom of the TV screen.
And then, we saw the obituary:
The McCries, Daniel McCrie and wife, the Honorable Judge Annabelle Landers, regret to announce the unfortunate loss of their daughter, Araneae McCrie. The infant passed away less than an hour after birth. The family has decided that there will be no public services. Condolences may be made in the form of donations in their daughter’s name to the University of Chicago School of Law.
It was the name, the same name the woman in the hospital said she’d named her daughter. It wasn’t common, such as Mary or Susan. A name like those wouldn’t be identifiable. The name, Araneae, had been what the woman in the hospital had said. There was no way we could chalk it up to coincidence. The baby in our care belonged to an attorney and a judge living in Chicago.
Why Allister Sparrow had gone to the effort to keep this baby hidden in plain sight still escaped us. All we knew was that we’d been pulled into this web. The gift of keeping the little girl safe and raising her had been bestowed upon us.
Renee’s little legs kicked gleefully as I worked to tuck them back into the tiny pink sleeper. Her soft brown eyes stared upward as I snapped each small snap, keeping her warm on this chilly spring morning. Lifting her up, I snuggled her against my chest and made our way to the kitchen.
As I turned the corner, Neal—no, Byron—was already there. “What are you doing? You have to start work soon. You need your sleep.” He’d been given a delay, time for his surgeries to heal.
A smile came to his lips. “I’m warming a bottle.”
“You are?”
He came closer and placed a gentle kiss on Renee’s head and then one to my lips. “We’re a team. We’re going to do this and save her from whatever her parents did.”
A lump formed in my throat. “Do you think we can?”
“This real job, the one at Boeing, comes with real money.” He looked around. “The house is paid off. Right now, our only obligation to Sparrow is keeping him updated on Renee. If he can make us into new people, one day, we can do the same.”
I laid Renee back in the crook of my arm. “Did you hear that, sweet girl? It’s going to be all right.”
The microwave dinged and Byron opened the door, lifting the bottle and gently squeezing the bag of formula inside. “Feels about right.”
I started to sit in the recliner in the living room when I stopped. “Do you want to feed her?” I asked.
Byron’s eyes opened wide.
“You won’t break her, I promise.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he took the seat and extended his hands. As he settled her into the crook of his arm and brought the bottle to her ready lips, my chest ached, knowing we’d finally been given what we’d always wanted—knowing that our gift was at the expense of others.