“That’s impossible.”
“There’s no record of an infant death under your name that day.”
“Then somebody deleted it.”
“No.”
His face had gone completely white.
“There’s a record.”
My fingers curled into the blanket.
“What record?”
He stared at the screen.
“A live male infant was transferred six hours after birth.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“To where?”
Ethan swallowed.
“St. Agnes Children’s Home.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“That was an adoption center.”
“I know.”
“No.”
“Hannah—”
“No!”
My scream ripped through the room.
A nurse rushed toward us, but Ethan raised one hand.
My eyes flooded with tears.
“They told me he was dead.”
Ethan looked devastated.
“I know.”
“They let me bury an empty coffin?”
His expression froze.
“You buried him?”
“My aunt helped me. It was sealed.”
Something inside Ethan seemed to break.
He bent his head.
And for the first time in all the years I had known him, Ethan Caldwell began to cry.
