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.”

took in the tableau. The idling van. The stolen infants. The gun.

“Don’t do it, Marsh,” I said, my voice shockingly steady despite the terror threatening to liquefy my organs. “You pull that trigger, the gunshot will echo all the way to the lobby. The police will swarm this dock before you can even close those van doors. Your escape route is dead.”

Marsh’s continue reading …