“No, she’s not.” Dr. Hancock says almost regretfully. “You saved her. You rescued her from the tub and took her with you.”
I want to scream that he’s lying but I can see myself lifting the baby out of the bloody water, her face streaked with blood.
“Yes,” Peter says stiffly. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my child’s life, but it’s been hell this last week grieving for my wife and not knowing if my child was alive.” He’s lying. I can tell by the way he turns his glance sideways to me.
Stan must see how transparent he appears. He steps between us. “But it’s all right now,” he says to Peter, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “Your child is fine. My wife, Laurel”—he looks at me—“took good care of her.” Then to me he says, “You didn’t want to hurt anyone. You were just confused.”
Then it hits me. They are saying the baby I have been taking care of all week is not mine. They are saying that Peter is going to take her. “No,” I say to Peter, “you can’t have her.” I turn to Dr. Hancock. “This is all a plan that Peter and Stan have cooked up to take Laurel’s money.”
“You mean your money?” Dr. Hancock asks.
“Laurel’s money,” I tell him. “That wasn’t Daphne in the tub, it was Laurel. She told me she suspected something. She thought Stan was poisoning her. I should have listened to her but I thought she was crazy.”
“You thought Laurel was crazy?” Dr. Hancock repeats. It’s maddening the way he keeps repeating Laurel’s name, like it’s going to jar something in my memory. And it does. Laurel’s will.
“They’re both in on it,” I say, looking from Peter to Stan. “Peter must have agreed to help if Stan agreed to invest the money in his fund.”
“So both of these men colluded to defraud both of their wives?” Dr. Hancock asks with heavy irony.
“Why is that so hard to believe?” I demand. “Stan married a rich woman for her money. Peter was always looking for money. Who knows what he’d do to get it . . . I don’t even know who he really is! His real name isn’t even Peter Marist! He’s someone named Thomas Pitt.”
“And what about Stan?” Dr. Hancock asks. “Is he someone else as well?”
I shake my head, dismissing the distraction. “How the hell should I know? I just know he wanted Laurel dead so he could get her money. He was putting something in her water. He must have drugged her and drowned her in the tub. Only he had to change the will first or it would have all gone to Chloë.”
“Chloë?” Dr. Hancock echoes. “Who was also in the tub?”
I splutter on this point, wanting to deny it, but I can see myself lifting a baby from the red water and wrapping her in a blanket—
The wet blanket in the car when I arrived.
“I don’t know!” I cry. “I don’t know how they planned to do it, but I have the will and the picture of Peter when he was Thomas Pitt. I hid them in the tower. I can show them to you.” I take a step forward but Dr. Hancock blocks my way.
“In the tower where you think another mother plunged to her death?”
“Is there another tower?” I snap impatiently, trying to sidestep around him. I can see now that there are two guards hovering just outside the door.
“Where you’ve been working as an archivist? A job you applied for as Laurel Hobbes?”
I can see where he’s going with this. “I applied for the job for Laurel, but then when she didn’t want it I took it . . .” I falter, trying to remember the moment I decided I would take the job.
Dr. Hancock, smelling blood, dives in. “So you’re doing a job Laurel was qualified for, using Laurel’s credentials and her ID, which you showed at the gate—”
“I have her ID because we switched diaper bags,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “I meant to give it back. I am not Laurel Hobbes. They killed Laurel Hobbes so they could get her money.”
“Then why not just leave her dead?” Dr. Hancock says gently. It’s this gentleness that makes me hate him the most.
“Maybe it’s got something to do with the will,” I say. “I’ll go get it and you’ll see.” This time I’m too fast for him and I dodge past Dr. Hancock. Neither Peter nor Stan tries to stop me but the guards block my way through the door, presenting a wall of flesh and muscle I can’t get through. “Get out of my way,” I tell them. “I’m not a patient here. You can’t keep me from leaving.”
“Your husband has admitted you,” Dr. Hancock says.
“He can’t do that!” I cry, looking at Peter. He stares back at me blankly, like I’m a stranger. He’s the one who’s the stranger. Have I ever really known him? It suddenly seems more likely that I’m Laurel Hobbes than that I am married to this man. And Chloe—hadn’t she seemed like a stranger too? They’re saying she’s Daphne’s baby, so if I’m Daphne she shouldn’t feel like a stranger. And she’s not a stranger now. She’s my baby and I have to get to her.
Dr. Hancock is saying something about a power of attorney and medical proxy and a writ of incompetence and past mental history. Stan is saying something about Peter dropping kidnapping charges if I’m admitted.
“After all,” Peter says, “you saved Chloe’s life. I’m willing to drop charges but I have to know that you’ll never get near her again.”
It’s the hint of a smile on Peter’s face that unravels whatever thread was holding me together. This is what he’s wanted all along. To get Chloe, his perfect daughter, to himself, his imperfect wife out of the picture. I fling myself at him, nails aimed at those cold eyes, that smug
