Chapter 2
Zoe picked me up and paced the room three times, but I would not stop crying.
She began to worry. She laid me back on the examination table and pressed her stethoscope to my chest, listening carefully.
My heartbeat was normal. My breathing was normal. My temperature was normal.
"What's wrong with this kid?" Zoe murmured, clearly confused.
The door swung open, and my father Richard walked in. He still wore his military uniform, snow clinging to his shoulders.
He was forty-three, tall and straight-backed, with determined eyes.
I had never met him in my previous life. This was our first meeting. All at once, I stopped crying.
Richard paused, then lowered his gaze to me. I stared back at him.
His eyes turned red. "Hey, baby girl," he whispered, his voice unsteady.
His rough hand reached out and brushed my cheek.
I grabbed his index finger and held on tight.
Richard smiled, then turned to Zoe. "How is Margaret?"
"She is weak after the delivery and needs rest. It is best not to move her tonight," Zoe said.
"All right. I will stay with her," Richard said. He sat down by the bed, took Margaret's hand in one of his, and let me hold onto the other.
A wave of relief washed over me. With Richard and Zoe here, Mary would not dare make a move.
But this was only for tonight.
If Mary did not act tonight, what about tomorrow? Or the day after?
In my previous life, she chose 1:30 in the morning because that was when Richard got called away by an emergency phone call, and Zoe had gone back to the on-call room.
The delivery room was left with only Margaret and me.
I had no idea who made that call.
In my previous life, I traced everything back to Mary, but I was killed before I could dig any deeper.
One thing was certain. Mary was not the mastermind. She was a pawn, bought to do someone else's dirty work.
The real puppet master pulled strings from much higher up.
At exactly midnight, I heard footsteps in the hallway. They were soft, but I picked them up easily. As a baby, my hearing was far sharper than any adult's.
The footsteps stopped at the delivery room door for a few seconds, then moved on.
It was Mary. I recognized her walk instantly. In my previous life, I had every detail about her carved into my bones.
She was casing the place. With people inside, she would not risk coming in. But she would definitely come up with another plan.
Sure enough, at 12:15, the phone at the nurses' station rang. The sound carried all the way down the hall.
Thirty seconds later, a nurse rushed over and knocked on the door. "Mr. Sinclair, there is a call from headquarters. They say it is urgent military business."
Richard frowned, glancing at Margaret, then at me. "Tell them to call back here."
"They said you have to take the call in person. It is a secure line," the nurse said.
Richard stood up.
I had to stop him from leaving. I started crying again, bawling as if my life depended on it.
Richard looked down at me, hesitating.
"Go ahead, I'll stay here," Zoe said.
Richard nodded and hurried out.
As his footsteps faded away, I stopped crying and kept my eyes fixed on the door.
At 12:20, I heard footsteps in the hallway again.
This time, it wasn't Mary. There were two people. They knocked on the door three times.
"Zoe, the director is looking for you. It is about tomorrow's surgery plan. He needs you to come and confirm it right away," a voice called from outside.
Zoe set down the chart in her hand. "Now? It's the middle of the night."
"The director said it was urgent," the voice replied.
Zoe glanced at Margaret, then at me.
I stared up at her with wide, pleading eyes, but as a baby, there was nothing I could do.
Zoe put me back in the crib and called out to the person outside, "I'll be back in ten minutes."
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving only Margaret, who was still deep in her exhausted sleep, and me in the delivery room.
The clock ticked over to 12:22.
The hallway stayed silent for about three minutes. Then footsteps echoed again.
They were barely more than a whisper, almost impossible to hear, but I caught them. They stopped right outside the delivery room door.
I heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock, metal turning, followed by a quiet click.
The door opened a crack, and a figure slipped inside.
She wore a white nurse's uniform, with a medium build, and her hair pulled back in a bun. In her arms was a swaddled baby.
It was Mary. She looked to be in her early forties, her face showing a practiced calm.
Her gaze swept over Margaret lying on the delivery bed, confirming she was deeply asleep. Then she walked directly toward the crib. After three steps, she stopped.
She saw me staring right at her.
Newborns were not supposed to stare at people that way. I knew that. But I could not control my eyes. All the hatred I had built up over thirty years burned in my gaze.
Mary paused for a second, then shook her head and continued toward me.
She set the swaddled baby down on the nearby counter and reached out to pick me up.
I bit down on her finger. I had no teeth, but I used every ounce of strength I had.
Mary flinched in pain, pulling her hand back. Annoyance flickered across her face. "Little brat," she snapped.
She reached out again, this time supporting the back of my head and my waist, lifting me out of the crib.
Her movements were practiced and smooth. After all, she was the head nurse.