Page 73 of His Daughter

I looked at the clock — 2:17 p.m. The nonprofit was forty minutes away in traffic. I looked at Lena. I looked at my mother.

The night nurse wasn't here. Mrs. Parrish had the day off — Tuesday, nonnegotiable. Declan was at the Vanguard.

Lorraine sat up straighter. "Go, baby. I'll watch her." She adjusted Lena on her shoulder. "She'll be fine with me."

Every instinct I owned said no. My mother loved Lena the way she loved everything, but her attention had a shelf life. It expired the moment something more interesting called. One text from Ray. One phone call. One invitation. Lorraine's focus would shift, and the baby would become furniture.

But Diane was sitting in a shelter with two children and a discharge notice. The shelter director was leaving at four. The paperwork required my signature. Margot couldn't do it alone.

Lorraine was my mother. The baby was sleeping. It should be fine.

"The bottles are in the fridge." I pointed. "Second shelf. Labeled. If she wakes up, feed her the one marked 2:00 p.m. The pediatrician's number is on the counter — Dr. Kaplan. The monitor is on in the nursery, volume up. Emergency numbers are on the fridge. Declan's cell is — "

"Thea." My mother gave me the patient, slightly amused look she gave when she thought I was overcomplicating something. "I raised two girls. Go."

I went.

The nonprofit door stuck on the humidity. I shouldered it open and was at my desk in thirty seconds. Margot was in her office, phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear, her free hand waving at me toward the stack of papers on the intake desk.

"She's here," Margot said into the phone. "Give us twenty minutes." She hung up. "The authorization is on top. Sign both copies. I'm calling a courier."

I signed. Margot called the courier. We waited. The courier arrived in twelve minutes — a kid on a bike with a messenger bag. Margot handed him the envelope with the authority of a woman dispatching a wartime telegram. He left.

I called the penthouse from my desk.

Lorraine picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Mom, how's Lena?"

"She's fine, baby. Sleeping like an angel. I'm just sitting here watching TV." I could hear a talk show in the background, someone laughing. "Don't worry."

"Is she still in the swing?"

"She's in her little bed. I moved her. She's fine."

"The crib?"

"Yes, the crib. She's sleeping. Go save the world, baby."

I hung up, turned to the Whitfield grant narrative, and wrote three paragraphs. Then two more. The words came slowly — my mind kept drifting north, toward the penthouse, toward the crib, toward my mother sitting on the couch, watching television while Lena slept in the next room.

I called again at 3:40 pm. The phone rang six times. The voicemail picked up — the generic penthouse line, not a personal greeting.

I hung up and dialed again. Six rings. Voicemail.

I was on my feet before the recording finished. I grabbed my bag and my keys.

"Thea?" Margot looked up from her desk. "What's wrong?"

"I have to go."

I drove faster than I should have. I ran a yellow light on Sixty-Third, another on Park. My hands were tight on the wheel. The phone sat in the cup holder. I called one more time at the first red light I actually stopped for. Six rings. Nothing.

She said everything was fine. The baby was sleeping. Only two hours.

I parked on the street and didn't bother with the garage. The doorman held the door. I crossed the lobby at a pace that was not quite running. The elevator. The keycard. Forty floors. The numbers climbing. My reflection in the polished steel — a woman with wide eyes and a pulse visible in her throat.

The elevator opened. The penthouse hallway stretched ahead. The front door was unlocked. I turned the handle and pushed.