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.”

”

“And the other one?”

“Leave it,” Marsh sneered. “Let the police chase their tails sorting out the rejects. Get the transport van to the loading dock.”

I backed away from the door, my blood turning to liquid nitrogen. They had them. They had our babies stashed in the abandoned hydrotherapy wing, treating them like contraband cargo.

Megan was staring at continue reading …