I stopped looking at the photographs like a mother. I started looking at them like evidence.
I pulled a notebook closer and went through every image again, writing down anything that might matter.
Dates.
Street signs.
Storefronts.
Names on envelopes.
Anything printed clearly enough to read.
Rachel.
The ultrasound photograph gave me the first real clue. I enlarged it until the image blurred around the edges.
Most of the patient information was cut off, but one thing remained visible.
Rachel.
Below it was the name of a clinic and a date. I stared at the date for a long time.
It fit.
I called the clinic.
If the baby was Daniel’s, Rachel would have been exactly that far along when the picture was taken.
The next morning, I called the clinic.
“I’m trying to locate someone who was a patient there in 2000,” I explained.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said kindly, “but we can’t confirm whether someone was ever treated here.”
