My wife died giving birth to our daughter, and I hated that baby from her very first cry. Six weeks later, I walked into her room determined to let her cry herself out, until I saw something tied around her wrist. It was a little red bracelet. I hadn’t put it on her. And under her pillow was my dead wife’s cell phone, powered on.

The noise shattered the silence like breaking glass. Three slow, deliberate strikes against the solid oak of the front entrance.

I stood frozen in the center of the dark nursery, clutching April tightly against my chest. My pulse thundered in my ears. It was 3:18 AM. Nobody dropped by at this hour—not my mother, not the neighbors, nobody.

"Ignacio?" A voice called out from the porch. Smooth, low, horribly familiar. "Ignacio, it's Dr. Vance. I'm sorry to bother you so late, son."

My blood ran cold. I stepped backward, moving as silently as I could onto the soft rug near the closet.

"I was just driving back from an emergency shift at the hospital," Vance's voice carried through the thin wood of the door, sickeningly gentle. "I saw the light on in your living room window. I've been worried about you and the baby. Sister Teresa mentioned to me earlier today that you were struggling... I brought some infant formulas and a mild sedative to help you sleep. May I come in?"

He knew. Somehow, he knew Sister Teresa had accessed Marina's old hospital bag. Or maybe he had realized the phone was missing from his locked storage.

I didn't answer. I backed into the dark hallway, my eyes frantically darting around the shadows. The hallway closet was just three feet to my right.

"Ignacio?" The knob rattled. A key clicked into the lock.

He has a key. Panic surged through my veins. The hospital had collected our emergency home keys during Marina's final week when they offered "home-care preparation." I had forgotten all about it.

With no time to lose, I slipped inside the hallway closet, pulling the louvered door shut until it left only a hair-thin crack. I shifted April into my left arm, pressing her tiny face against my neck, praying with every cell in my body that she wouldn't cry.

The front door creaked open. Heavy leather soles stepped onto the entryway hardwood.

"Ignacio?" Vance called softly. I could see his shadow casting long against the living room wall through the wooden slats of the closet door. He wasn't alone. A second, much larger silhouette followed him inside—a man wearing a dark tactical jacket.

"Search the back room," Vance murmured, his voice completely devoid of the warmth he had used outside. "The parish nun was talking to the night nurse before she left. If the device was delivered, we need it destroyed before he figures out the access code."

"What about the guy?" the second man asked, his voice rough and guttural.

"If he's seen the files, he's an unacceptable liability," Vance replied calmly, as if discussing a routine medical procedure. "Make it look like an accidental infant distress incident followed by... a tragic emotional breakdown of the father. No one will question it given his mental state over the past six weeks."

My breath hitched. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath so hard my ribs ached. April squirmed against my shirt, shifting her small weight. I gently rubbed her back, pleading mentally: Please, little girl. Please stay quiet.

The large man walked past the closet, his heavy boots causing the floorboards to groan. He pushed open the bedroom door across the hall, stepping inside.

"He's not in here," the man called out. "Crib's empty!"

"Find him!" Vance barked, his voice sharpening. "He couldn't have gone far—his truck is still parked out front!"

This was my only chance. While both men were focused on the bedrooms at the end of the hall, I carefully reached behind the winter coats hanging in the closet. My fingers brushed against the loose drywall panel Marina had mentioned in the audio clip. I slid it aside silently, my fingertips touching the smooth texture of a thick, heavy paper folder. I pulled it out and stuffed it inside my jacket.