Chapter 4 - The ConfrontationI called Detective Marguerite Oyelaran, a family friend of Rosalind's who worked cases involving hospital fraud and infant trafficking rings — a specialty I did not know existed until that week, and one I have wished every day since that I'd never had reason to learn about.
She came to the house herself rather than sending it through a general tip line, which I understood later was because Rosalind had specifically asked her to, out of concern for how fragile everything still was.
Grant was home when she arrived. I watched his face when I introduced her, watched something flicker there that I recognized, retroactively, as the exact expression of a man realizing the ground under him had shifted while he wasn't paying attention.
"Mr. Halloway," Detective Oyelaran said, "I need to ask you some questions about the night your daughter was born."
He looked at me. "Priscilla, what is this?"
"Eli saw you," I said. "By the elevators. He saw you give a woman an envelope. He saw her carry away a baby that was crying."
Every trace of color left Grant's face.
"He's eight," Grant said, too fast. "He was confused, he was scared, kids imagine things when—"
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"The funeral home on the remains release form doesn't exist," I said. "I've seen the paperwork, Grant. There is no death certificate signed by a doctor who actually examined a body. There's a form with your signature and a business name that isn't registered anywhere in this state."
He sat down very slowly at the kitchen table, the same table where Rosalind had shown me the folder four days earlier, and put both hands over his face.
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