The fluorescent lights in the south side Chicago police precinct buzz overhead like angry wasps. It’s two in the morning, and I can taste copper in my mouth from biting the inside of my cheek during the drive here. When Sergeant Miller called, his voice was careful, measured.
“Miss Baker, we have your niece and nephew here. They’re safe, but we need you to come down.”
I’d thrown on whatever clothes I could find and driven through the blizzard, gripping my steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white. Cooper and Piper are here.
They’re safe. That’s all that matters. But Miller doesn’t lead me to the children.
His hand on my elbow is firm, almost forceful, as he guides me past the waiting area where I catch a glimpse of silver emergency blankets. He steers me into an interrogation room instead. The door closes with a click that sounds too final.
Miller drops a plastic evidence bag on the metal table between us. Inside is a crumpled note, and even through the clouded plastic I can see my name scrawled across it in Sloan’s handwriting. “Miss Baker.” Miller’s voice has lost all warmth.
“Can you explain why a wealthy Lincoln Park architect would send two small children to a frozen industrial wasteland in the middle of a blizzard?”
The words hit me like a fist to the stomach. “What? I didn’t—”
“Child abandonment is a felony in Illinois.” He leans forward, and I can smell the coffee on his breath.
“Child trafficking carries even heavier penalties. You want to start explaining?”
My hands shake. This isn’t real.
This can’t be happening. “There’s been a mistake,” I say, but my voice comes out strangled. “I live at 2400 North Clark, Lincoln Park.
The children—where were they found?”
Miller’s eyes don’t leave my face. “2400 South Clark Street. An abandoned industrial park.
During a blizzard warning. Dressed in summer clothes.”
The difference hits me like ice water. North vs.
South. One letter. Two completely different worlds.
My address is tree-lined streets and boutique coffee shops. South Clark at that number is warehouses and broken streetlights and nowhere a child should ever be, especially not at night, especially not in January. “I never—” I have to stop, breathe.
“I told my sister no. I sent her an email. I have proof.”
Miller crosses his arms.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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