Page 34 of The Other Mother

THE CHOICE

D esert View Cemetery at midnight looks like something out of a scary movie.

The moon is thin, casting skeletal shadows through the palm trees that line the entrance.

I park my car (a rental so that Adam can’t find me) between two weathered headstones and sit for a moment.

Eva is sleeping against my chest in the baby carrier.

Her warm weight is the only thing keeping me grounded as I stare out at acres of marble and granite monuments to people who died with their secrets intact.

I should have left her at the motel. Should have paid the night clerk an extra fifty dollars to keep an eye on her while I came here alone.

But the thought of leaving Eva with a stranger, even for an hour, makes my chest tight with panic.

After everything I've learned about babies being stolen, switched, sold like commodities, I can't let her out of my sight .

The cemetery's wrought iron gates stand open, but there's something ominous about the gap between them, like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.

I've always hated cemeteries since my father's funeral when I was twelve.

The way the freshly turned earth smelled like secrets, the way the mourners whispered like they were afraid to wake the dead.

Tonight feels worse because I'm not here to mourn someone who's gone.

I'm here to meet someone who's been living with a ghost.

Eva stirs as I walk deeper into the cemetery, following the directions Maria gave me over the phone.

"Third row from the back, near the angel with broken wings.

" My footsteps crunch on gravel that sounds too loud in the desert silence.

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls, and I pull Eva closer.

I find Mara's grave exactly where Maria said it would be.

The headstone is simple black granite with gold lettering: "Mara Elena Vasquez, Beloved Daughter, 1998-2024.

" Below that, in smaller script: "She fought for what was right.

" Someone has left fresh white roses at the base, their petals ghostly in the dim light.

"You came."

I turn and see a girl emerging from behind a tall monument topped with a weeping angel.

Maria Santos looks exactly like I imagined from her voice, small and fierce, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and eyes that have seen too much.

She's wearing jeans and a black hoodie, and she moves with the careful precision of someone who's learned not to trust the world .

"You don’t look twenty," I say, adjusting Eva's weight against my chest.

"Grief ages you." Maria's gaze is fixed on Eva with an intensity that makes me want to step backwards. "She looks like Mara."

I don’t know what to say to that.

"She's my god-daughter to be.” The words come out flat, matter-of-fact, but I hear the pain underneath. "My best friend died trying to get her back."

We stand there for a moment, two women on opposite sides of an impossible equation. I got to take Eva home from the hospital while Mara went home with empty arms. I got two months of midnight feedings and first smiles while Mara got a grave.

"You said you had evidence," I say finally.

Maria nods and pulls a small device from her pocket. "USB drive, a copy of course. I’ve been recording phone calls between hospital staff for eight months. My grandmother hired a private investigator with her social security money. We know about Ava Pierce, about the auctions, about all of it."

She hands me the drive, and I turn it over in my palm. Such a small thing to contain so much horror.

"The network spans three hospitals," Maria continues. "Coachella Valley Medical, Desert Springs Regional, and Palm Desert General. Ava Pierce coordinates between all of them. She runs actual auctions where couples bid on babies based on photos and genetic profiles. "

My stomach turns. "They treated the babies like livestock."

"Worse. Livestock has regulations." Maria's voice is bitter. "My baby was sold to international buyers for half a million dollars. They told my grandmother she died of complications, but I have recordings of Pierce arranging the sale."

She shows me her phone, scrolls to a photo that makes my blood freeze. It's Eva as a newborn, still red and wrinkled, lying in a hospital bassinet with a blue wristband around her tiny ankle.

"Where did you get this?"

"Mara's apartment. She'd been tracking Eva, building a case. She knew where Eva was, knew who had her, but she was trying to do it legally. She wanted to expose the whole network, not just get one baby back."

I stare at the photo, remembering nothing from those first few hours after Eva's birth.

The sedatives Adam agreed to, the confusion, the paperwork I signed without reading.

Mara was somewhere in that same hospital, being told her baby was dead while I was being handed the child she'd carried for nine months.

"My friend was going to save all of us," Maria says softly. "Now it's up to you."

She leads me to Mara's headstone and kneels beside it, running her fingers along the base until I hear a soft click. A section of the marble backing swings open like a door, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside is a metal box about the size of a jewelry case, sealed with duct tape.

"She hid this here two days before she died," Maria explains. "Told me if anything happened to her, I should give it to the woman raising Eva. She knew it was you."

I open the box with shaking hands. Inside are documents, photos, and a letter with my name written on the envelope in careful cursive handwriting.

The letter is brief:

Claire,

If you're reading this, they probably killed me. But Eva is safe with you, and that gives me peace. I know you didn't choose this, just like I didn't choose to lose my daughter. But now we both have a choice about what happens next.

Don't let them win.

The evidence in this box will destroy the network, but only if someone with access to the inside takes it to the right people. Your husband was part of this and the other criminals are still out there, still stealing babies, still destroying families.

Eva was stolen from me, but I want her to stay with you. You're her mother now in every way that matters. But please, make sure no other mother has to suffer what I suffered.

Love her enough to fight for all of us.

Mara

I read the letter twice, tears blurring the words. Eva makes soft sleeping sounds against my chest, completely unaware that her birth mother wrote her a blessing from beyond the grave .

The rest of the box contains a victim list with forty-seven names, financial records showing bank transfers totaling over seven million dollars, and a small recording device.

Maria shows me how to work it, and I listen to Ava Pierce's voice arranging what she calls "placements" like she's talking about furniture instead of human beings.

"We need help," I say, closing the box. "This is too big for us to handle alone."

"I already thought of that." Maria pulls out a burner phone. "You used to work in publishing, right? You know people in media?”

I think of my old colleague Jessica Towler, who left the publishing world to become an investigative journalist. We haven't spoken in two years, but she always said if I ever had a story worth telling, she'd listen.

Jessica had made a name for herself exposing corruption in small towns—the kind of stories the big papers ignored.

If anyone would believe what I'm about to tell her, it's Jess.

"Maybe. But I can't call from my phone. Adam might be tracking it."

"Use this." Maria hands me the burner.

My hands shake as I dial Jessica's number from memory. What if she doesn't answer? What if she thinks I've lost my mind? The weight of everything I've discovered feels crushing—the altered medical records, the missing babies, Adam's lies. But I have to try.

My heart pounds as the phone rings. How do you even begin a conversation like this?

How do you tell someone that there's a network of people stealing newborns, telling devastated mothers their babies died during delivery, then selling those same children to wealthy clients?

The words sound insane even in my own head.

But I've seen the evidence, and I can't unknow what I know now.

Jessica answers on the third ring, her voice groggy with sleep. "Who is this?"

"Jess, it's Claire Matthews. I know it's late, but I have a story you need to hear."

"Claire? Jesus, what time is it? And why are you calling from a blocked number?"

"Because my husband might be monitoring my phone. Jess, I've stumbled onto something huge. A baby trafficking network operating out of hospitals in the Coachella Valley. Dozens of children stolen from their mothers and sold to wealthy families."

The line goes quiet for so long I think she's hung up. Then, "Are you somewhere safe?"

"I'm in a cemetery at midnight with a teenage girl whose baby was trafficked internationally. Safe is relative."

"Claire, this sounds ... " Jessica pauses, and I can hear her journalist instincts kicking in. "This sounds like a front-page story. But I need corroboration. Hospital records, financial documents, testimony from multiple victims."

"I have all of that. But Jess, if this goes public too fast, people are going to disappear. Evidence is going to be destroyed. We need to move carefully."

"How long do you need?"

I look at Maria, who holds up three fingers. "Seventy-two hours. Three days to gather everything we need for an airtight case."

"Done. But Claire, if anything happens to you, if you disappear or get arrested or whatever, I'm publishing everything immediately. No waiting. The story goes live within an hour.”

After I hang up, Maria and I stand in the cemetery silence, both of us processing what we've just set in motion. Eva has woken up and is making soft cooing sounds, her tiny hand reaching up to touch my face.

"You have a choice to make," Maria says finally. "You can take Eva and run. Leave tonight, disappear, let Jessica and me handle the legal stuff. Eva will be safe, and you'll never have to face the consequences of what Adam did."

I know she's right. I could be in Mexico by morning, start a new life with Eva under new names.

But I think about the forty-seven names on Mara's list, about Teresa Valdez who held her breathing baby for ten minutes before being told she was dead, about all the mothers who are still out there grieving children who are alive and well and calling other women mama.

"Or," Maria continues, "you can fight. Go back to Adam, pretend you've forgiven him, gather more evidence from the inside. But if you do that, you risk losing Eva when the authorities get involved. You risk her being taken away during the investigation. You’re a stranger to her, after all.”

I hold Eva closer, feeling her warm breath against my neck. She smells like baby soap and that indescribable sweetness that I've learned means home. The thought of handing her over, even temporarily, even to family, makes my chest feel like it's caving in.

"You got to raise her for two months," Maria says, and there's no accusation in her voice, just exhausted sadness. "I never even held my daughter. Which of us has lost more?"

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. Not the burner phone, but my real phone, the one Adam gave me, the one I should have thrown in a dumpster hours ago.

The text message makes my blood turn to ice:

I know you're at the cemetery. I know you're with the Santos girl. Come home now, or I call Child Protective Services and tell them you're having a psychotic break. You have one hour.

I look around the dark cemetery, suddenly aware of how exposed we are out here. The wrought iron gates that seemed welcoming when I arrived now look like prison bars. My rental car is parked fifty yards away, but it might as well be on the moon.

"He's been tracking my phone," I whisper, showing Maria the text.

That's when I see the headlights turning through the cemetery entrance. Adam's white F-150, moving slowly between the headstones like a predator stalking prey.

Maria grabs my arm. "He's not here to talk. We need to run. Now."

But Eva is crying now, startled awake by my sudden tension, and my car is parked near the entrance where Adam's truck is heading. We're trapped between the graves and the gates, with nowhere to hide except behind headstones.

Adam's truck stops near my rental car, and three men get out. I recognize Adam immediately, even in the moonlight. The other two are strangers, but one of them carries what looks like a medical bag.

"Claire, honey," Adam calls out, his voice carrying across the cemetery with false calm. "Let's get you the help you need."

The help. Like I'm the one who needs fixing. Like I'm the one who's lost my mind.

Eva's cries echo off the marble headstones, a sound that seems to wake the dead.