Page 33 of The Other Mother

THE NETWORK

T he Sunset Motel lives up to its name in the worst possible way.

Everything here is the color of dying light, faded orange carpet with cigarette burns like tiny black wounds, mustard-yellow curtains that can't quite block out the parking lot's neon vacancy sign, and walls painted a sickly beige.

I've been staring at these walls for six hours now, and they're starting to feel like they're closing in.

I came here because it was the only place that allowed me to pay cash.

If I had stayed at the Westin, Adam could call the credit card company and find out where I am and I need him to not know where I am right now.

Eva sleeps in the makeshift crib I've created from the motel dresser's bottom drawer, lined with every towel the housekeeping cart could spare.

She looks so small in there, so vulnerable, her tiny fist curled against her cheek the way she always does when she dreams. The rise and fall of her chest is the only thing keeping me sane in this fluorescent-lit nightmare.

My phone buzzes against the scratched particle board table for the fifteenth time in the last hour. Adam's name flashes on the screen, followed by another text preview I don't bother to read. I flip it face down and return to the manila folder.

The documents are organized now, sorted by date, cross-referenced by the bank account numbers I found.

My mother always said I had a mind for details, back when she was proud of my English degree instead of disappointed I wasn't using it.

"You see patterns other people miss, Claire," she used to tell me when I'd solve the Sunday crossword puzzle in record time.

If only she could see me now, using those same skills to unravel my husband's crimes.

The motel's WiFi password is taped to the desk lamp: "sunset123.

" Simple, like everything else in this place.

I open my laptop and start typing names into search engines, cross-referencing them with birth announcements, obituaries, social media profiles.

The digital detective work feels natural, almost soothing.

It reminds me of doing research back in college and for a while there, I lose myself in the search.

The first name on my list is Caroline McNey. According to Adam's files, she received an infant on September 15th, 2023, the same day the hospital recorded a stillbirth under her name.

I grab hotel stationary from the bedside drawer and start building a timeline in my careful handwriting.

My journalism professor in college taught me to always work with physical notes alongside digital research.

"Computers crash, Claire, but paper remembers everything.

" He would be impressed to know I'm using his investigative techniques to expose my own husband's crimes.

Rebecca Morrison is next. The records show a stillbirth on October 3rd, but her Facebook profile from that same week shows her posting photos of a healthy newborn baby boy.

The comments are full of congratulations and heart emojis from friends who have no idea they're celebrating a lie.

"He's perfect!" one comment reads. "You must be so relieved after all those complications. "

My hands shake as I write Rebecca's name on my timeline. How many women are walking around right now, believing their happy endings, not knowing their children were stolen from other mothers' arms?

The third name stops me cold: Henderson .

Our neighbors. The ones with the perfect landscaped front yard and the twin boys who hate baths and whose screams I hear every night if their windows are open.

Sarah Henderson, who brought us a casserole when we first brought Eva home, who always asked about Eva's sleeping schedule with that knowing smile of a fellow mother.

According to Adam's files, Sarah suffered three miscarriages between 2021 and 2023.

Then, miraculously, she gave birth to twin boys in January 2024.

But the bank records show two separate payments of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars each, made to an account linked to Ava Pierce on the same day the boys' births were registered.

I think about all those Sunday mornings, watching those little boys play while holding Eva in my arms. Were their biological mothers somewhere else, grieving children they thought were dead? Were Sarah and I both unknowing participants in the same horrible crime?

The scope of this thing is staggering. I count forty-seven names in Adam's files, spanning three years. Forty-seven families built on lies. Forty-seven mothers who went home with empty arms while other women celebrated stolen miracles.

Eva stirs in her drawer-crib, making those soft cooing sounds that usually melt my heart.

Tonight they just make me feel sick with guilt.

I lift my shirt and settle her against me, her tiny mouth finding what she needs immediately.

The same instinct that got us into this mess at the hospital where this whole nightmare began.

I settle into the room's single chair and feed Eva, watching her dark eyes blink sleepily at me in the harsh light.

She trusts me completely, this child who should belong to someone else but somehow, impossibly, feels like mine.

Her tiny hand wraps around my finger while she nurses, and I have to swallow hard to keep from crying.

When she's finished, I burp her gently and settle her back in the makeshift crib. Then I return to my investigation, because stopping now would mean letting forty-six other families live with the same lie that's been poisoning mine.

I start calling numbers from the bank transfer records, using a voice I remember from my brief stint doing phone surveys in college. Professional but sympathetic, authoritative but not threatening.

"Hello, this is Claire from Coachella Valley Medical Center's billing department," I say when the first number connects. "We're conducting a routine audit of patient records from 2023, and I need to verify some information about your account."

Most people hang up immediately. A few listen long enough to realize I'm not actually from the hospital before disconnecting. But on my seventh call, a woman's voice cracks when I mention the date of her hospital stay.

"Teresa Valdez?" I ask gently.

"Yes." The word comes out like a sob.

"Mrs. Valdez, I'm actually not from the hospital's billing department. I'm a mother whose baby was involved in the same program as yours. I need to ask you about what happened on March 15th."

Silence stretches between us, filled only by the sound of her breathing and the distant hum of the motel's ice machine.

"They told me my baby died," she finally whispers. " But I held her. I held her for ten minutes, and she was breathing. I saw her little chest moving."

My throat tightens. "What happened after that?"

"A social worker came in. Ava Pierce. She said there had been complications, that the baby was suffering, that it would be cruel to prolong her pain. She gave me papers to sign, said it was for the burial arrangements. But I was so sedated I could barely see the words."

Ava Pierce. The name from Adam's files, the one who signed off on dozens of these "emergency placements."

"Did you ever see your baby's body?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"No. They said it would be too traumatic. They said I should remember her as she was when she was alive." Teresa's voice breaks completely. "But she WAS alive. I know she was alive."

I close my eyes, thinking of my own foggy memories from Eva's birth. The sedation, the confusion, the papers I signed without reading. "Mrs. Valdez, I think your baby is alive. I think she's with another family who believes she was legally placed with them."

"You think?" Hope and terror war in her voice.

"I know. And I'm going to prove it."

After I hang up, I sit in the terrible silence of the motel room, staring at Eva's sleeping form. She's wearing the yellow onesie with tiny ducks that I bought her last week, back when I still thought she might be mine.

I return to my laptop and start cross-referencing the hospital records with obituary searches and birth announcements in the local newspaper's online archives.

The pattern emerges quickly, sickeningly clear: for every "died in childbirth" obituary, there's a corresponding birth announcement in the society pages within forty-eight hours.

Then I find the entry that makes my blood run cold.

Maria Santos, twenty years old. Emergency contact: Esperanza Santos (grandmother).

The date matches the nurse's notes about the blue striped blanket baby.

But there's no corresponding placement record in Adam's files.

No bank transfer, no new family, no happy ending.

The baby simply disappears from the paperwork after the fake death certificate.

I dial the number listed for Esperanza Santos, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"?Sí?" An elderly woman's voice.

"Mrs. Santos? My name is Claire Matthews. I'm calling about your granddaughter Maria's baby."

"?Quién es?" The suspicion in her voice is sharp as broken glass.

"I think your great-granddaughter might still be alive."

A sharp intake of breath, then rapid Spanish I can't understand. When she switches back to English, her voice is thick with tears.

"Mija, they told us the baby was too sick, that it was a blessing she didn't suffer. But Maria, she never got over it. She keeps asking why she couldn't hold her baby, why they took her away so fast. "

"Where is Maria now?"

"She lives with me still. She's twenty-one now, but she still cries for her baby every night. She draws pictures of her, talks to her like she's still here." Mrs. Santos' voice drops to a whisper. "I think maybe she's going a little crazy from the grief."

Maria is absolutely right to grieve, because her baby isn't dead.

"Mrs. Santos, I'm going to find out what happened to your great-granddaughter. I promise you that."

"?Por qué? Why do you care about our family?"

I look at Eva, sleeping peacefully in her drawer-crib, unaware that her entire existence is built on someone else's loss.

"Because I think I know who has her baby."

After I hang up, I spread all my notes across the motel's scratched table. Names, dates, bank transfers, phone numbers. A map of stolen children and grieving mothers and families who think they're living happily ever after.

Eva wakes up and looks at me with those dark eyes that suddenly make perfect sense. They're not my eyes or Adam's eyes. They're Mara's eyes, the same eyes I saw in the photo of the young woman who died believing her baby was safe with me.

I have three choices, and they're all terrible .

I can run. Take Eva and disappear into whatever life we can build with fake identities and constant fear. Let the network continue operating, let other mothers suffer what Mara suffered, let other families unknowingly participate in this horror.

I can return Eva. Try to find Mara's family, hand over the child I've raised for months, break both our hearts in service of some abstract concept of justice.

Or I can fight. Take down the entire network, risk everything, probably lose Eva anyway when the authorities get involved, but maybe save other children from the same fate.

My phone rings, jarring me from my thoughts. The number isn't in my contacts.

"Is this Claire Matthews?" The voice is young, female, shaky but determined.

"Yes."

"This is Maria Santos. My grandmother said you called about my baby. The one they said died."

My heart stops. Then pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.

"Maria."

"I know she's alive. And I think you might know where she is."

I look at Eva, sleeping innocently in her makeshift crib, then at the papers spread across the table.

And I'm no longer alone in this fight.

But I'm also no longer in control of what happens next.