Chapter 7: The Doctor Who Said Nothing
Dr.
Harlan Webb was sixty-one years old, according to the medical board profile Daniel pulled up on his tablet.
He had practiced for thirty-two years.
He had a commendation from the state hospital association.
He had a photograph on the hospital website — silver-haired, confident, the kind of face that made patients feel they were in capable hands.
Daniel set the tablet on my bedside table so I could see it.
"He's still on rotation," he said.
"He worked a shift here yesterday."
"He was in this building yesterday," I said.
"Yes."
Paula made a sound low in her throat.
"The detective's name is Sandra Reyes," Daniel continued.
"She's been assigned to the case as of this morning.
She wants to speak with Donna first.
I've already made contact — Donna is willing."
I exhaled.
"She'll lose her job," I said.
"She knows that.
She came forward anyway." Daniel closed the tablet.
"Reyes also wants the video and the log before she approaches Webb or Marsh.
Once they know there's an active investigation, they'll lawyer up and go quiet.
She wants to move before that."
"When?"
"This afternoon, if possible."
I reached into my hospital bag and pulled out Donna's folded log.
I set it on the table beside the tablet.
"The video is on my phone," I said.
"How do I get it to her?"
"I'll handle the transfer.
It needs to be done correctly so it's admissible." He picked up the log carefully, by the edges.
"This too."
He stepped out to make the arrangements.
Paula sat down in the chair Ryan used to occupy.
"How are you doing?" she asked.
Not the polite version.
The real one.
"I keep thinking about the night I went into labor," I said.
"Ryan drove me to the hospital.
He held my hand the whole way.
He kept saying everything was going to be fine." I looked at the bassinet.
"He already knew.
He'd already changed the policy six weeks before.
He'd already — made his plan.
And he sat there holding my hand."
"Don't do that to yourself," Paula said quietly.
"I'm not doing anything to myself.
I'm just trying to understand how someone does that."
"You won't," she said.
"Because you couldn't."
The door opened.
Not Daniel — a different face.
A woman in her late forties, plain clothes, a lanyard with a badge tucked into her jacket pocket.
"Mrs.
Calloway?" she said.
"I'm Detective Reyes.
I'm sorry to come to you here.
I'll be as brief as I can."
She pulled the visitor's chair to the bedside and sat down with a small notebook.
"I've reviewed the NICU access log your attorney provided.
I've also spoken with the nurse — Donna Hartwell.
Her account is consistent with the video." She looked at me directly.
"I want to ask you about Ryan's behavior in the days before your labor.
Any changes.
Anything that felt off, even if it seemed small at the time."
I thought about it.
"He was attentive," I said.
"More than usual.
He kept asking about the twins — which one was bigger, which one was more active.
The doctors had told us Twin B was slightly smaller.
Ryan asked about that a lot."
Reyes wrote something down.
"Did he ever express a preference?
A name he favored more, or talk about one twin differently than the other?"
I started to say no.
Then I stopped.
"He kept saying he hoped they'd both be healthy," I said slowly.
"But when we talked about names — we'd chosen names for both — he only ever used one of them.
He only ever said the name of the baby who survived."
Reyes looked up from her notebook.
"He never used the other name?"
"Not once.
In eight months of pregnancy.
I didn't notice until just now."
She wrote it down.
"Mrs.
Calloway, I want to be honest with you about where we are.
The insurance restructuring gives us motive.
The video and the log give us a timeline.
What we don't yet have is a direct connection between Ryan and Dr.
Webb.
Financial records take time.
But—" she paused, "—Dr.
Webb made a call at 1:09 a.m.
the night your son d*ed.
Eight minutes before the alarm was silenced.
We have the number.
We're running it now."
The air in the room felt thin.
"It's Ryan's number, isn't it," I said.
Reyes didn't confirm it.
But she didn't deny it either.
She closed her notebook and stood.
"I'll be in touch through your attorney.
In the meantime — if Ryan attempts to contact you, document it.
Don't engage beyond what's necessary." She looked at my son in the bassinet.
"He's beautiful."
"Thank you," I said.
She left.
Paula and I sat in silence for a moment.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Ryan.
*I made a mistake.
I need to explain.
Please don't do this.
Think about our son.
Think about our family.*
I set the phone face-down on the blanket.
Our family.
May you like
He had decided what our family looked like before our sons were even born.
He had just forgotten to tell me which one of them wouldn't be in it.
