Chapter 2 - What I Did With That InformationI did not confront Grant that night. I want to be honest about why: I was afraid. Not of him raising his voice — in six years of marriage he never once had — but afraid, specifically, of what it would mean if my son was right, and afraid of what it would mean if he handled the conversation the way he'd handled everything else since the hospital, with quiet, careful control that left no room for me to ask a second question.
Instead, I called my sister, Rosalind, who is a family law paralegal and has spent fifteen years learning exactly which questions to ask when something doesn't sit right.
"I need you to hear something," I told her, "and I need you to tell me honestly whether I've lost my mind."
She listened to the whole thing without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
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"Do not say a word to Grant," she said. "Not yet. If there's any truth in this, the very first thing that has to happen is that nothing gets destroyed or moved or explained away before someone with actual authority looks at it. I know how that sounds. I know you're talking about your husband. But listen to me — a hospital does not lose a baby's remains without a chain of documentation. There's a death certificate. There's supposed to be a body, Priscilla. If there isn't one, that's not a story. That's a crime scene nobody's treated like one yet."
That sentence went through me like ice water.
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