Page 37 of The Other Mother
THE RECKONING
T he desert air burns my lungs as I clutch Eva tighter against my chest, her small body trembling in the chaos swirling around us. The gravel in the driveway makes a loud crunching sound and my heart jumps into my throat.
"Claire's been kidnapped by these women," Adam announces to the police officers flanking him, his voice carrying that smooth authority I once found so attractive. "She's suffering from postpartum psychosis and can't make rational decisions about our daughter's safety."
The words hit me like physical blows. Even now, after everything, he's spinning the narrative.
Making me the unstable one while he plays the concerned husband.
The CPS worker, a thin woman with kind eyes and a clipboard that might as well be a weapon, scribbles notes as she studies me.
I can practically see her mental checklist: disheveled appearance, no legal documentation, surrounded by strangers in the middle of nowhere.
"That's my best friend’s baby!" Maria's voice cracks as she steps forward from behind me, the other safe house mothers forming a protective wall at my back. "These people stole her from our family!"
Eva's cries pierce the desert silence, her tiny fists grabbing at my shirt as voices rise around us.
The sound tears through me because I know exactly what she's feeling. She’s overwhelmed, scared and unable to understand why the people who should protect her are the source of all this noise and fear.
"Everyone needs to calm down," Linda Dearborn says, stepping between Adam and Maria with her hands raised.
Her voice carries decades of experience negotiating impossible situations, but I can see the sweat beading on her forehead despite the desert chill.
"This child's welfare is what matters here. "
The police officers exchange glances. One speaks into his radio while the other keeps his hand resting on his belt.
They don't know who to believe, and honestly, I don't blame them. Adam looks like the concerned father in his pressed khakis and button-down shirt. Maria looks like a grieving mother fighting for her friend’s child.
The other women look like exactly what they are – desperate mothers who've been through hell.
And me? I look like someone who's been living in hiding for weeks .
"Sir, we're going to need to see some documentation," the older officer says to Adam. "Birth certificate, custody papers, anything that proves your legal relationship to the child."
Adam reaches into his jacket pocket with confidence, producing a manila folder. “Here you go. Everything’s in order."
My stomach lurches as I watch him hand over the forged documents. The same papers that started this nightmare, now being presented as gospel truth to law enforcement. The CPS worker examines them with professional thoroughness while Eva continues to wail in my arms.
"And you, ma'am?" The officer turns to me. "Do you have any documentation proving your relationship to the child?"
The question hangs in the air. Because here's the devastating truth – I don’t. At least, not here.
“Yes, the birth certificate with both our names is right there,” Adam says. “She’s my wife and Eva’s mother. But she’s going through postpartum depression. She’s struggling, and feeling confused, and I think these women have taken advantage of her vulnerable state."
The lie flows so smoothly from his lips that for a moment, even I almost believe it. Almost. But then Eva's cries escalate, and instinct takes over. I begin humming the lullaby I've sung to her every night since she was born.
The effect is immediate. Eva's sobs quiet to hiccups, then to the soft breathing of contentment. Her tiny hand finds my finger and grips it tight. In the sudden silence, everyone can see the bond between us – the way she melts into my body and how her breathing synchronizes with mine.
The CPS worker makes another note. "The child does appear to have a strong attachment to you," she says carefully. "How long have you been caring for her?"
"Since she was born," I whisper, the truth stripped bare. "I was there. I held her first.”
The sound of approaching vehicles cuts through the interrogation. Three black SUVs and a news van kick up dust clouds as they barrel down the desert road toward us. The police officers immediately go on alert, hands moving to their weapons as they position themselves protectively around the group.
"Nobody move," the older officer barks into his radio. "We need backup at this location immediately."
The lead SUV screeches to a halt, and Jessica Towler emerges from the passenger side, followed by men and women in FBI windbreakers. My heart hammers against my ribs. Apparently, she has been chasing this story from the beginning. But why is she arriving with federal agents?
"FBI," announces a tall woman with steel-gray hair as she approaches our group, badge held high. "I'm Agent Gillian Holt. We need everyone to remain calm and cooperate with our investigation.”
Linda goes very still. For a breath, her face is pure surprise. Then something like calculation clicks in behind her eyes.
Jessica steps from the other side of the SUV. Not with a camera. No press pass. Just a notebook and a tight mouth. She looks at me once, then away, like she is not allowed to know me here.
“Ms. Dearborn,” Agent Holt says, voice steady. “We are seizing this location as part of an investigation into adoption fraud, trafficking, and interstate custodial interference. Please keep your hands where I can see them.”
“This is a shelter,” Linda says. Her smile does not make it to her eyes. “We reunite families.”
Agent Holt lifts the folder. “You intake mothers without identification, take their phones and keys, move infants offsite at night, and upload falsified consents created by your partners. We have bank records, wire transfers, and communications from your devices.” She nods to the deputies. “Cuff her.”
The room exhales. Someone drops a clipboard. Maria takes a step back like the floor just tilted. “No,” she says, looking from Linda to me. “No. You help. You reunited my neighbor with her son. You?—”
“Maria Santos,” Agent Holt says, “you are not under arrest at this time. But we will need a statement. We can show you where the money went. ”
Maria’s eyes find the pink cap on the table. The faded sticker inside. Her mouth trembles. “You said we were correcting wrongs,” she says to Linda. It sounds like a prayer losing its faith.
Linda stares straight ahead as the cuffs click.
A deputy edges Adam away from me. “Mr. Matthews,” Agent Holt says, “step aside. We will speak with you separately.”
Adam lifts his hands, palms out. He looks smaller than I have ever seen him. “Of course. I will cooperate with anything you need,” he says. The words leave him like a breath he has held too long.
“Mrs. Matthews,” Agent Holt turns to me. “You and the infant are coming with me. A child welfare specialist will meet us at the vehicles. You are not under arrest. You will be interviewed. Do you understand?”
Eva stirs against my shoulder, warm and heavy. My voice comes out thin. “Yes.”
Deputies begin to move people. Two mothers on the couch start to cry. One keeps saying, “I just wanted help,” over and over. Tasha sinks into a chair and covers her face.
Jessica stands at the edge of it all, hands tight around her notebook. She meets my eyes. This time she does not look away. “I tried to get it to you first,” she says softly. “I could not risk a leak.”
Maria stumbles toward me, arms half-lifted like she means to take the baby and then remembers she cannot. “I did not know,” she says. It is barely a sound .
Agent Holt nods to a second agent who steps between us. “We will sort roles in interviews,” Holt says. “Tonight we secure the site.”
A deputy opens the breadbox on the counter and pulls out a stack of phones, rubber-banded by color. Another unlocks a storage closet and finds plastic totes labeled with dates. The white baby scale sits silent on the buffet, numbers dead in the dim.
Outside, more lights slide down the road. The deputies hold them at the fence line. The night fills with red and blue.
“Claire,” Adam calls from across the room. He looks gray, like someone has drained the color from him. “I don’t know anything about this. You have to believe me.”
The next hour passes in a blur of questions. Eva and I are placed in the back of an FBI vehicle while agents coordinate the scene. Through the tinted windows, I look at Maria who sits in another vehicle, her face buried in her hands as the reality of her situation becomes clear.
Agent Holt slides into the seat across from me, her expression serious but not unkind. "Mrs. Matthews, your case broke this whole thing open. We've been tracking this network across six states, but we needed someone on the inside."
"I didn't know," I whisper, adjusting Eva in my arms. She's sleeping now, exhausted by the chaos. "I thought they were helping me."
"We know. You're not in trouble, Mrs. Matthews. You're a victim. But we need your help to make sure these people can't hurt any more children."
I look down at Eva's peaceful face, thinking about the forty-seven children Agent Holt mentioned. Forty-seven babies stolen from their families, sold like commodities, their entire lives built on lies. Just like Eva's has been.
"What do you need me to do?”
“I’m not going to sugarcoat this. Your husband was one of the top people involved in this fraud.”
Agent Holt does not blink. “We have wire records that route through shell companies tied to his ‘consulting’ work. Silver Rock Partners, BrightStart Domestic Advocates, J.H. Consulting. Money moves from those entities into an account at First Desert Bank in his name. There is a second account at Cascade Trust that you did not know about. Total deposits into the two accounts exceed three million dollars in the past three years.”