Right after delivery, my husband smirked at the newborn: “We need a DNA test to be sure it’s mine.” I held the baby tightly, tears in my eyes, and whispered, “Fine, let’s do it.” Days later, the doctor stared at the lab results with a pale face and said, “Ma’am, call the police right now.”
“You need to stay put,” Alvarez commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This is a volatile situation. If Marsh is part of a black-market adoption ring, or worse, she will bolt if she senses heat. Let us do our jobs.”
He swept out of the room to coordinate the manhunt, leaving Megan and me in the suffocating continue reading …
