Yesterday. The word felt heavy. The baby’s skin had a bluish tint. Jonathan felt panic bloom in his chest. If he walked away, this child would die here.
“He’s cold,” Jonathan said softly. “And hungry. You are too.”
“I’m fine.”
“You can hold him the whole time,” he said. “I won’t touch him. But I have heat in my car. Blankets. A doctor.”
She hesitated, eyes flicking to the Bentley.
After a long moment, she stood. Still clutching the baby—Benny, she later said—she walked toward the car like someone stepping into a trap.
Inside the townhouse, everything felt colder than usual. The marble floors gleamed. The chandeliers reflected empty light.
The girl refused baths, new clothes, and the concerned hands of housekeepers. She sat on the floor with Benny in her arms, watching every doorway.
Dr. Samuel Carter arrived quickly. One look at the baby and his face tightened.
“Severe dehydration. Early pneumonia,” he murmured to Jonathan. “He needs hospital care. And you need to notify Child Protective Services.”
“If they go into the system, they’ll be separated,” Jonathan said fiercely. “I won’t let that happen.”
“You can’t just keep them.”
“I can provide everything they need.”