Stop trying to contact Michael.
The rest was worse.
It said Michael knew about the pregnancy.
It said he wanted no involvement.
It told Sarah that continued attempts to contact him or his family would be considered harassment.
Then came the sentence that made my hand tighten around the paper.
For the sake of the child, it would be better if you disappeared from Michael’s life permanently.
“Who sent this?”
“I thought you did.”
“I did not.”
“I know that’s what you’re saying.”
I looked at her.
“Sarah, look at me.”
She did.
“I never wrote this.”
She said nothing.
“I never asked anyone to write it.”
Still nothing.
I placed the letter flat on the table.
“Did you show this to anyone?”
“Linda.”
“Anyone else?”
“A lawyer.”
I nodded.
That made sense.
“What did the lawyer say?”
“That because it wasn’t signed and didn’t make a direct threat, there wasn’t much to act on. She told me to keep records.”
I looked toward the bassinet.
The blue blanket had slipped slightly from Jack’s shoulder.
Without thinking, I walked over.
Then stopped.
I didn’t know whether I was allowed to touch him.
Sarah noticed.
She crossed the room and adjusted the blanket herself.
“He looks like you when he sleeps,” she said quietly.
I couldn’t answer.
After a moment, I asked the only question that mattered.
“Can I hold him?”
Sarah looked at me for a long time.
Then she lifted Jack carefully.
“Sit down.”
I did.
She placed him in my arms.
He weighed almost nothing.
That was my first thought.
My second was that I had missed everything.
The appointments.
The ultrasound.
The first kick.
The hospital.
His birth.
His first night.
His first three weeks.
Jack opened his eyes for maybe two seconds.
Dark blue.
Then closed them again.
I touched one finger to his hand.
His fingers curled around it.
Sarah turned away.
I stayed like that until my phone vibrated.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw the name.
Jennifer Davis.
I looked at Sarah.
“She’s calling me.”
Sarah’s face went pale.
“Why?”
I checked the time.
8:47 p.m.
Christmas Eve.
Jennifer never called me on holidays unless something was wrong.
I answered.
“Jennifer.”
Her voice was cheerful.
“Michael, sorry to bother you tonight. I wanted to make sure you received the Henderson documents before the holiday.”
I stared at Sarah.
There were no Henderson documents.
“Yes,” I said.
A pause.
Very small.
“Good. Are you home?”
That question changed the room.
I looked down at Jack.
“Why?”
“No reason. I was going to have a courier drop something off tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow is Christmas.”
Another pause.
“Right. Of course.”
I had worked with Jennifer for eight years.
I knew her pauses.
That one meant she was thinking.
“Jennifer, do you remember May nineteenth?”
Sarah looked sharply at me.
Silence came through the phone.
“May nineteenth?”
“This year.”
“Michael, I manage hundreds of appointments.”
“Were you at my house?”
The silence lasted longer this time.
“I may have dropped off paperwork.”
“Did Sarah come there?”
Sarah stopped moving.
Jennifer answered too quickly.
“I don’t remember.”
I looked at the folder.
Eleven emails.
Six calls.
A Sunday afternoon.
A false trip to Chicago.
“Think about it.”
“Michael, what is this about?”
I didn’t answer her question.
“Did Sarah come to my house while you were there?”
Jennifer exhaled.
“She may have stopped by.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“And what did you tell her?”
“I honestly don’t remember.”
Sarah closed her eyes.
I stood carefully and handed Jack back to her.
Then I walked into the kitchen.
“Jennifer, I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course.”
“Do not access my email.”
Silence.
“Excuse me?”
“Do not access my email, calendar, voicemail, office files or home security system.”
“Michael—”
“Effective now.”
Her voice changed.
The warmth disappeared.
“What happened?”
“I’ll talk to you after Christmas.”
“Are you with Sarah?”
I froze.
I had never told Jennifer where I was.
Behind me, Sarah slowly raised her head.
I said nothing.
Jennifer tried again.
“Michael?”
“How did you know I was with Sarah?”
No answer.
I ended the call.
Then I opened my company security app.
Jennifer had administrative access to several systems because I had given it to her years ago.
Email delegation.
Calendar permissions.
Office voicemail.
Travel accounts.
Even the smart security system at my house.
One by one, I removed her.
Sarah stood in the doorway holding Jack.
“What are you doing?”
“Something I should have done months ago.”
I changed my email password.
Then my cloud password.
Then the security code to my house.
After that, I called our IT director.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Michael? Everything okay?”
“I need Jennifer’s administrative access suspended.”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
He hesitated.
“Is this an HR issue?”
“Not yet. Preserve everything associated with her account. Don’t delete anything.”
His voice became more serious.
“Understood.”
I ended the call.
Sarah was still watching me.
“You believe me now?”
I looked at the folder on her dining table.
Then at the blue blanket around my son.
“I believe somebody made sure I never heard you.”
I picked up the anonymous letter again.
At the bottom of the page was a faint gray mark I hadn’t noticed before.
Three tiny characters.
A printer tracking code.
I photographed the page.
Then I sent the image to myself.
My phone vibrated almost immediately.
Not Jennifer this time.
Dr. Linda Harris.
Sarah looked confused.
“Why is Linda calling you?”
I answered.
“Dr. Harris?”
Her voice was controlled but urgent.
“Mr. Johnson, Sarah gave me permission to contact you. I’m sorry to call on Christmas Eve, but our records department flagged something this afternoon.”
I looked at Sarah.
“What kind of something?”
“Someone requested Jack’s medical records.”
Sarah stepped closer.
“Who?” I asked.
“The request says it came from the child’s mother.”
I looked directly at Sarah.
She shook her head.
Linda continued.
“Sarah didn’t submit it.”
My eyes went back to the anonymous letter on the table.
“Was anything released?”
“No. The signature didn’t match what we have on file, so the request was stopped.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“Do you know where it came from?”
