Half an hour later, Jonathan returned—defeated.
“They sent us home,” he muttered. “Said Dr. Hale has everything under control. That I’m just an anxious father.”
Sophie screamed in his arms, her face turning frighteningly dark.
Without thinking, I stepped forward.
“Mr. Reed… may I try? Just for a moment.”
He hesitated, then handed her to me.
I held Sophie against my chest, skin to skin, humming softly—the same lullaby I once sang to Caleb.
The change was immediate. Her body relaxed. The screaming stopped.
Jonathan stared.
I gently touched Amelia’s head.
“It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Within minutes, both babies were asleep.
That was when Dr. Cassandra Hale appeared.
“What is going on here?”
She stood in the doorway, flawless and furious. Her gaze locked on me.
“Why is household staff handling medically fragile infants?” she snapped. “I gave strict instructions.”
“Cassandra,” Jonathan whispered, “look. They’re calm.”
Dr. Hale yanked Sophie from my arms. The baby whimpered instantly.
“This means nothing,” she said sharply. “She’s masking symptoms. Get out.”
Jonathan apologized, conflicted, and I obeyed—but I knew something was wrong.
Over the next week, the pattern became clear.
When I held the twins, they slept and ate. Every afternoon at four, Dr. Hale arrived. By five, the screaming returned.
Margaret whispered to me one day, “This isn’t normal. Every time that woman leaves, it gets worse.”
Then, during a stormy evening, Dr. Hale dropped something—a tiny glass vial in the driveway.
I retrieved it. Faint writing remained.
Ephedrine / Digoxin – 0.5 mg
I searched it.
My stomach turned.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
