Chapter 7 - Two Empty Cribs
Arthur arrived at Brooke's apartment expecting another argument.
He found the door unlocked and the nursery stripped of everything except two pale squares on the carpet where the cribs had stood.
There were fresh scratches around the lock.
A bottle lay in the sink, rinsed but not washed.
On the refrigerator, the smiling photograph of Arthur with the twins had been cut in half.
Brooke had taken only her own face and the children.
Arthur reported the circumstances to police.
An officer explained that a parent leaving with her own infants did not automatically amount to kidnapping.
Arthur was furious at the distinction.
Then he remembered how casually he had once dismissed my boundaries.
He sat in the empty nursery and finally understood that he had never asked what Brooke intended to do once the divorce was complete.
I learned of her disappearance from Mara, not from Arthur.
My first concern was for the babies.
Whatever had happened between their parents, newborns needed care and stability.
Mara contacted Brooke's lawyer and requested confirmation of their safety through proper channels.
Hours passed without an answer.
Meanwhile, our accountant traced Meridian's newest transactions to a beachfront rental owned by a second shell company.
It was booked under an alias.
The reservation required two infant travel cots.
We forwarded the information to investigators rather than going there ourselves.
At dusk, a detective called.
The twins were safe.
Brooke had been located at the rental with a licensed caregiver.
She claimed she was hiding from Arthur because he had become unpredictable after learning about Nathan.
The detective said neither side should contact the other directly until family-law counsel arranged a safe process.
I felt relief I had not expected to feel.
Then Brooke sent me an email.
"You always wanted children.
Don't make my babies pay for what Arthur did."
Attached was a photograph of a storage contract.
My name was at the top.
Below it, someone had typed an instruction authorizing future use of our embryos by a designated surrogate.
The designated surrogate was Brooke.
I felt the cold climb my arms.
The attached signature was a forgery, but the document was structured to make me look like I had consented.
Mara instructed me not to argue with Brooke by email.
We preserved the original message and its headers.
Minutes later another email arrived.
"There is a second file.
If you want it, withdraw the fraud complaint."
I stared at the screen.
She was no longer merely defending herself.
She was bargaining with evidence.
At the bottom was a scanned ultrasound report.
It listed an embryo transfer date that did not match the twins' gestational age.
Someone had altered the timeline.
And hidden in the document's metadata was the name of the person who had edited it.
May you like
Arthur Bennett.
