Chapter 8: The Number That Connected Everything
The call records came back forty-eight hours later.
Daniel told me over the phone, his voice measured and deliberate in the way it got when the news was both good and terrible at once.
"The number Webb called at 1:09 a.m.
was a prepaid phone," he said.
"Purchased eleven weeks ago.
Cash transaction at a convenience store in Ryan's neighborhood.
The store has cameras."
I sat very still.
"They have footage of Ryan buying it," I said.
"They have footage of a man matching Ryan's description, wearing a jacket we've since identified from a photo on your joint social media account, purchasing a prepaid phone at 4:47 p.m.
on the same day the phone was activated." A pause.
"Ryan's attorney will argue it's circumstantial.
But combined with everything else—"
"It's enough," I said.
"Detective Reyes believes so.
She's presenting to the DA this afternoon."
I looked out the hospital window.
I had been here nine days.
My son was gaining weight.
The nurses said we could go home in two more days.
Home.
The word felt strange.
The house Ryan and I had bought together.
The nursery we had painted together — pale yellow, because we hadn't known the genders yet.
Two cribs, side by side.
"Daniel," I said.
"What happens to Ryan now?"
"If the DA approves charges — and I believe they will — he'll be arrested.
The charges will likely include insurance fraud, conspiracy, and depending on what the full investigation uncovers about Webb's actions that night, potentially more serious charges related to your son's d*ath."
I pressed my hand flat against the window glass.
It was cold.
"And Webb?"
"Webb retained an attorney yesterday.
That tells us he knows what's coming.
His attorney has already made informal contact with the DA's office.
He may cooperate in exchange for reduced charges."
"He'll turn on Ryan."
"That's what cooperation usually looks like, yes."
I stayed at the window for a moment after the call ended.
Paula was at the hospital cafeteria.
My son was asleep.
The room was quiet.
Ryan had texted four more times in the past two days.
I hadn't responded to any of them.
The last one had said: *You're making a mistake.
You don't have the full picture.
There are things you don't know about those boys.*
I had forwarded it to Daniel without replying.
*Things you don't know about those boys.*
I had turned that sentence over and over in my mind for thirty-six hours.
What could he possibly mean?
The answer came from an unexpected direction.
Ryan's mother called that afternoon.
Her name was Sylvia.
We had never been close — she was a careful, private woman who kept her opinions behind a polished surface.
She had visited twice during my pregnancy and sent a generous gift when the twins were born.
I almost didn't answer.
"Claire." Her voice was different.
Quieter.
Something stripped out of it.
"I know you have no reason to trust me right now.
I know that.
But I need to tell you something, and I need you to hear it before Ryan's attorney shapes the story."
I said nothing.
I let her continue.
"Ryan came to me eight weeks ago," she said.
"He told me he'd found out something about the pregnancy.
About one of the twins." She stopped.
"He said the doctors had told him one of the boys had a serious genetic condition.
That he wouldn't have a normal life.
That he would need full-time care indefinitely."
My breath went shallow.
"He told me he couldn't do it," Sylvia continued.
"He said he wasn't built for it.
Those were his words.
He asked me if I thought he was wrong to — to want to make a choice."
"What did you tell him?" I said.
A long silence.
"I told him that wasn't a choice any person had the right to make for another." Her voice was unsteady now.
"I told him to talk to you.
To talk to the doctors.
To get a second opinion.
I thought — I believed he would do that.
I didn't know he would—" She stopped again.
"Claire.
Was any of it true?
Did the doctors ever tell you anything like that?"
"No," I said.
"No doctor ever told us anything like that."
The silence on the line was very long.
"He made it up," Sylvia said.
It wasn't a question.
"I don't know if the condition was real," I said.
"But no one ever told me.
And he never told me either."
"Oh God." Her voice fractured.
"Oh, Claire."
"Sylvia." I kept my voice steady.
"I need you to tell Detective Reyes everything you just told me.
Will you do that?"
A pause.
Then: "Yes.
I'll do whatever you need."
I ended the call and stood in the center of the room with my hands at my sides.
Ryan had built a story.
A private justification, told to his mother, perhaps told to Webb, perhaps told to himself.
A reason that made the choice feel almost logical to the people he needed to convince.
But he had never told me.
Because he knew I would have said no.
He knew I would have fought for both of them.
And so he had made the decision without me, in the dark, at 1:17 in the morning, while I lay unconscious three floors away.
My son made a sound from the bassinet.
I crossed the room and picked him up.
He was warm and solid and entirely real.
"I've got you," I said quietly.
"I've got you."
And then, for the first time since I had woken up in this hospital room nine days ago, I let myself cry — not the shocked, silent tears of those first days, but something deeper and harder and necessary.
I cried until there was nothing left.
May you like
Then I wiped my face, settled my son against my shoulder, and picked up my phone to call Daniel.
There was work still to do.
