Ch.6: First Contact

The door to the nursery didn't squeak. It glided open on silent, oiled hinges, revealing a room that looked less like a place for a child and more like a laboratory clean room.

The walls were a pale, sterile gray. The blackout curtains were drawn tight, suffocating the daylight. There were no mobiles spinning overhead, no stuffed animals, no color. Just the rhythmic, rhythmic *beep... beep... beep* of a medical-grade heart monitor sitting on a stainless steel trolley.

And the crib.

It sat in the dead center of the room, an island of white wood in a sea of shadows.

I took a step forward. My knees threatened to buckle. The air in the room was so cold it stung my lungs, or maybe that was just the panic constricting my chest.

*Whirrrrr.*

The sound was faint, like a mosquito buzzing near my ear.

I froze. I didn't look up, but I knew what it was. I had seen the black glass dome mounted in the corner of the ceiling when I walked in. The camera.

It was tracking me.

Dr. Thorne wasn't just protective; he was omniscient. He was watching my posture, my speed, my hesitation. If I ran to that crib and fell to my knees weeping, "Mara Kovic" would be dragged out by security before she could unzip her bag.

I forced my spine straight. I rolled my shoulders back. I locked my grief into a tight, hard box in the center of my chest and threw away the key.

I walked to the crib. One foot in front of the other. Professional. Detached. A nurse doing rounds.

I looked down.

She was sleeping.

Her tiny chest rose and fell in a shallow, fragile rhythm. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, with blue veins mapping the geography of her temple. She looked smaller than she had in the photo. Smaller than she had when I held her for those fleeting seconds in the delivery room before the sedation took me.

My hands twitched at my sides. I wanted to scoop her up. I wanted to rip the wires off her chest and run.

*Beep. Beep. Beep.*

The monitor steadied me. It was a language I understood.

I reached out, my hand hovering over the rail. I needed to touch her. I needed to know she was real and not a hallucination induced by trauma and sleeplessness.

She stirred. Her face scrunching up in discomfort. A small, mewling cry escaped her lips.

Instinct took over. I reached down and touched the diaper. Heaviness.

"Shh," I whispered. The sound was foreign in this silent room. "I've got you."

I reached for the changing station supplies. Everything was brand new, unopened. I laid a fresh pad on the changing table and lifted her from the crib.

She was so light. It felt like holding a bird.

I laid her down on the table. She kicked her legs, fussing, her eyes still squeezed shut.

I unzipped the white sleep sack. I unsnapped the onesie.

Doubt gnawed at the back of my mind. What if I *was* crazy? What if this was just an orphan Thorne had adopted? Newborns look alike. Grief makes you see things that aren't there. I needed proof. I needed absolute, biological certainty.

I pulled the diaper away.

I grabbed a wipe, cleaning her gently, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I lifted her legs to slide the fresh diaper underneath.

And then I saw it.

Right there, on the curve of her left hip, just below the diaper line.

A birthmark. A jagged, red splotch the size of a dime. A strawberry hemangioma.

My mother had one. I had one. And when Daisy was born, the very first thing I did—before the doctors took her, before the darkness came—was kiss that exact spot.

The room spun. The gray walls fell away.

It was her.

This wasn't a lookalike. This wasn't a replacement. This was Daisy. My Daisy. Alive. Stolen.

A scream built up in my throat, a primal, volcanic sound that would shatter the windows and bring the entire house down. I wanted to scream *mine*. I wanted to scream *murderer*.

*Whirrrrr.*

The camera lens rotated a fraction of an inch. Zooming in.

I couldn't scream. If I screamed, I lost her again.

I lowered my head, hiding my face behind a curtain of hair. I finished snapping the diaper. I wrapped her back up in the sterile white cloth. I picked her up and held her against my shoulder, burying my nose in the soft crook of her neck.

I had to bite my tongue until I tasted copper to keep from screaming her name.