Chapter 1

St. Mary's General Hospital, Maternity Ward. January 1982, a little past one in the morning. That was when I came into the world.

In about two hours, a nurse named Paula Green would walk through the door, lift me from the bassinet, and switch me with another woman's baby.

The last time around, she got away with it.

I spent twenty years scraping by in a drafty trailer on the outskirts of a nowhere town, riding a beat-up bike twelve miles to reach the city limits.

I showed up on the doorstep ready to claim my real family, and the girl who stole my life handed me a glass of iced tea.

She'd mixed in something meant to kill me. I barely got two sips down before I was back on the other side.

But this time, things were different.

I put in ten years working in the records department on the other side, filing away case folders for every rotten deal you could dream up.

Babies traded for trust funds. Fake paperwork for fancy schools. Kids passed off as somebody else so a wealthy couple could feel better about themselves.

I saw it all. I did my time, earned my credits, and traded every single one of them for a clean shot at starting over.

I watched the plain white clock on the wall. The second hand jerked its way around the cracked face.

There were two hours until Paula made her move.

Two hours later, Paula would open the door. She'd claim she was taking me for standard newborn tests.

My mother was worn out from labor, barely able to keep her eyes open. She wouldn't think twice about it.

Then Paula would carry me down to the supply closet at the end of the hall.

Her cousin, Linda Bloom, would be waiting inside, holding another baby girl.

Two blankets. Unwrap one, wrap the other. Three minutes and the switch was done.

Hannah Reed became Hannah Bloom. Chloe Bloom became Chloe Reed.

That was how she took twenty years from me the first time.

But right now, I was an infant. I couldn't speak. I couldn't roll. I couldn't lift my own head.

What I could do was cry, grip, and fight sleep. That would be plenty.

Mom held me for a while, but her eyes kept drooping.

Dad sat beside us in the folding chair and said softly, "Get some rest. I'll keep watch."

No, he wouldn't. The first time, he fell asleep in that chair around two in the morning. That was when she took me.

I didn't need Dad standing guard.

I needed Mom holding me so close nobody could wedge us apart.

Mom started to lower me toward the little metal crib beside her bed.

"Waaah—!!" The sound tore out of me. Not a fussy little whimper. A full-blown, bone-deep wail that said the world was ending.

Mom flinched and pulled me tight against her chest. "What is it? What's wrong? Shh, shh, sweetheart, I've got you."

The moment she held me close, I went silent. My eyes were wet and wide, and one tiny hand had a death grip on the front of her flannel nightgown.

Mom blinked. "Look how tight she's holding on. It's like she's scared I'll put her down."

Dad reached over to take me. My scream went up a notch, sharp enough to cut glass. He yanked his hands back fast.

I burrowed into Mom's arms and shut up again, still clamped onto her nightgown.

Dad laughed, sounding worn out and a little amused. "She's two hours old, and she already knows her mother?"

Mom's eyes went glassy. "She knows me."

She tucked me right against her heart. "Then I'm not letting go. I'll hold her while I sleep tonight."

The minutes dragged. By two in the morning, Dad was snoring in his chair.

Mom was drifting too, but every ten minutes or so, I let out a tiny whimper, keeping her right on the edge of sleep.

Two thirty. Two forty. Two fifty. My heart pounded faster each minute that passed.

Two fifty-five. Soft footsteps sounded from the hallway.

The rubber soles on linoleum made almost no sound at all, but I caught it.

The footsteps stopped outside the maternity ward door. The knob turned with a quiet click, and a woman in a white coat stepped inside.

She was maybe thirty, round-faced, with hair pinned up under a nurse's cap and that practiced smile they all wear. She wheeled in a metal bassinet cart.

Paula Green. I had been waiting ten years for you.

She kept her voice low. "Michelle, sorry to disturb you so late. Hospital policy. The baby needs a quick screening and a heel stick. I'll bring her right back."

Mom opened her heavy eyes. "Screening? At this hour?"

"Newborn tests are always done at night," Paula said, her tone smooth and professional. "The babies are quieter. Easier to manage. Daytime gets too crowded, and we worry about germs spreading."

This was exactly how she fooled you the first time. Mom's arms started to loosen.

This was the time. My cry shattered the quiet of the ward. I screamed and kicked and thrashed and shook. I curled into a tight little ball against Mom's chest and held on.

All ten of my tiny fingers dug into the fabric of her nightgown like I'd been sewn there.