She wanted to believe he was simply being thorough, the way he had spent hours selecting the solid maple crib to ensure it had no sharp edges. He was so careful with the assembly, checking every joint twice to make sure the baby would be completely secure inside.
She brushed the wood shavings into her palm and carried them downstairs to the wastebasket, trying to focus on his helpfulness rather than the cold feeling in her chest.
At one o’clock, Emma parked her Buick in the driveway of Claire’s suburban townhouse, carrying a cardboard box filled with outgrown maternity sweaters.
Claire opened the door before Emma could ring the bell, her dark hair already spilling out of a messy bun. “You look like you haven’t slept in a month,” Claire said, pulling Emma into the warm entryway.
“The baby is crowd-pleasing my ribs,” Emma said, setting the box on the bench.
They sat at the oak dining table, the midday sun cutting through the vertical blinds in long, pale strips. Emma reached into her purse and hesitated, her fingers touching the edge of the folded yellow note she had slipped into her wallet the afternoon before.
“Dr. Cooper whispered something to me during the ultrasound,” Emma said, keeping her voice low. “He told me I needed to leave the house.”
Claire tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear, her eyes widening. “Why would he say that?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said, her thumb tracing the pattern on her teacup. “He looked terrified.”
“Did he say anything about Michael?”
“No,” Emma said quickly. “He just said I wasn’t safe.”
“Is Michael still tracking your phone?” Claire asked, leaning forward.
“He only does that because he worries about my blood pressure,” Emma said, her voice growing defensive. “He wants to make sure he can reach me if I fall.”
Claire reached across the table and took Emma’s hand, her fingers cold. “Dr. Cooper is sixty-two, Emma. Maybe he is getting confused, or maybe he saw something on the scan that he didn’t know how to explain.”
“He is just excited about the nursery, Claire,” Emma said, her voice dropping to a whisper as she tried to convince herself.
“People make mistakes, even doctors,” Claire said, squeezing her hand. “Let’s call the office and get some clarification before we panic.”
“He wouldn’t have written a note if it was a medical mistake,” Emma said.
“We need to be sure,” Claire said. “Go down there and talk to the front desk.”
The hospital parking garage charged twelve dollars, and Emma paid the machine with a crumpled bill before walking into the professional building at half past three.
She stopped by the lobby kiosk to buy a two-dollar cup of clinic coffee, holding the warm paper cup against her palm to stop her hand from shaking.
She walked up to the reception desk in Dr. Cooper’s clinic, where a young woman with a silver name tag was typing rapidly.
“I need to leave a message for Dr. Cooper,” Emma said. “It is urgent.”
The receptionist did not look up from her screen. “Dr. Cooper is out of the office for the remainder of the week, Mrs. Harris.”
Emma felt the air leave her lungs. “He was here yesterday.”
“He had a sudden family matter to attend to,” the woman said, finally looking up with a polite, professional smile. “His partners are covering any emergencies.”
“Did he leave any notes on my file from yesterday afternoon?”
