“Is this my daughter in the yellow hat?” I asked.

“Did Paul bring her to you the night Dr.

Evans signed the death certificate?”

A cold, thin smile touched her mouth.

She didn’t reach for the picture, and she didn’t look down at the baby in my hand.

“Paul just did what was necessary,” Rebecca said, buttoning the coat again.

“You were in a coma for three weeks, Megan.

Paul knew you couldn’t handle a baby.”