Chapter 8 - The Secret in the NurseryRachel survived the shooting.
Barely.
The bullet entered her shoulder.
Noah's doctors stabilized her inside the estate.
But I couldn't stop thinking about the message.
The baby is next.
My daughter was less than twelve hours old.
She had done nothing.
Yet someone believed she was dangerous enough to kill.
Why?
At dawn, Detective Reed arrived with new evidence.
He placed a folder on the table.
“Your daughter’s birth certificate has already been accessed.”
I stared at him.
“By whom?”
“Someone using Grant’s credentials.”
I turned toward my husband.
Grant looked stunned.
“I didn't do it.”
“Then who did?”
“I don't know.”
Reed opened another file.
“There's more.”
My daughter's medical records had been accessed before she was born.
“Why?”
“Because someone was monitoring the pregnancy.”
I felt ice creep through my veins.
“How long?”
“Seven months.”
Grant suddenly sat down.
“That's impossible.”
Reed looked at him.
“You knew.”
Grant shook his head.
“I knew Emma was being watched.”
“By whom?”
“I assumed it was my enemies.”
Noah slammed a hand on the table.
“You don't have enemies. You have accomplices.”
Grant looked at him.
Then whispered:
“Not anymore.”
A security alarm suddenly sounded.
Everyone turned.
Noah checked his phone.
“Someone entered the nursery.”
My blood ran cold.
We ran.
The nursery door was open.
The crib was empty.
I screamed.
Noah tore through the room.
Nothing.
Then a security guard shouted from the hallway.
“Sir!”
We ran toward the rear entrance.
A woman in a medical uniform was running through the garden.
Noah's men chased her.
She dropped a black bag.
Inside was a syringe.
A sedative.
And a tiny bracelet.
My daughter's bracelet.
I grabbed it.
“Where is she?”
The guard pointed toward the woods.
Then a cry came from behind us.
The nurse who had delivered my baby was standing in the doorway.
She was smiling.
Not crying.
Smiling.
Noah raised his weapon.
“Where is the child?”
The woman laughed.
“She was never your child.”
My blood turned cold.
She looked directly at me.
“She belongs to the Whitakers.”
Then she swallowed something.
Her body collapsed.
In her hand was a photograph.
The photograph showed my daughter.
Taken three months before she was born.
And beside her was another child.
A boy.
On the back were the words:
May you like
SECOND HEIR.
:::
