Chapter 2 - The TransferSebastian read the message three times.
Those were the words my husband said three hours after I gave birth to our daughter.
I was lying in a private maternity suite at St. Catherine’s Medical Center in Chicago, trembling beneath a white hospital blanket while my newborn slept in a clear bassinet beside me.
My name is Valerie Bennett.
I was thirty-two years old, married for six years, and until that night, I had spent most of my marriage believing my biggest problem was that my husband loved his family too much.
I was wrong.
Sebastian stood at the foot of my bed, exhausted and irritated.
His mother, Margaret Bennett, stood beside him in a cream designer suit that looked far too elegant for one in the morning.
Behind her was Sebastian’s younger sister, Camille, holding her phone.
Neither woman had left the hospital since I arrived.
“I’m not being dramatic,” I whispered.
Margaret sighed.
“Valerie, every woman has discomfort after childbirth.”
“This isn’t childbirth.”
My voice shook.
“My legs hurt.”
Sebastian rubbed both hands over his face.
“You’ve been saying that for hours.”
“Because something happened.”
Camille gave a small laugh.
“Something happened?”
I looked toward her.
She immediately lowered her eyes to her phone.
For weeks, strange things had been happening.
Doors in our house locked when I hadn’t locked them.
My prenatal vitamins disappeared.
A stranger from a private adoption agency called asking whether I had “made my final decision.”
I had never contacted an adoption agency.
Someone had requested copies of my pregnancy medical records.
Sebastian’s mother suddenly became obsessed with attending every appointment.
And twice, I had awakened at night with Margaret standing inside our bedroom.
Each time she claimed she was checking on me.
Sebastian believed her.
Every time.
Then, four nights before I went into labor, I woke with pain in both legs.
I found faint purple marks along my thighs.
Margaret said pregnancy caused bruising.
Sebastian agreed.
The bruises got worse.
Now they were burning.
“I need another doctor,” I said.
“You already had one,” Sebastian replied.
“Dr. Keller said your delivery went perfectly.”
“Dr. Keller works with your mother’s foundation.”
Margaret’s expression changed.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
Sebastian did too.
“Valerie.”
His voice hardened.
“That’s enough.”
“No.”
I pushed myself upright despite the pain.
Our daughter stirred beside me.
Her tiny face tightened before relaxing again.
I looked at her and felt terror rise through my chest.
“Something is wrong.”
Margaret walked closer.
“You’re exhausted.”
“Don’t touch me.”
The room went silent.
Sebastian stared at me.
Margaret slowly lowered her hand.
Then Camille muttered, “This is ridiculous.”
I looked directly at Sebastian.
“Ask them why someone called me from an adoption agency.”
His face changed.
“What?”
Margaret interrupted immediately.
“She’s confused.”
“I’m not confused!”
My voice cracked loudly enough that the baby started crying.
A nurse entered.
Margaret stepped backward.
Sebastian lifted our daughter carefully and began rocking her.
Watching him hold her should have calmed me.
Instead, I remembered something Margaret had said during my seventh month.
Bennett children belong to the Bennett family.
At the time, I thought it was another controlling comment.
Now I wasn’t sure.
The nurse checked my blood pressure.
“Still elevated,” she said.
“I want another physician.”
“I’ll contact the hospitalist.”
Margaret smiled politely.
“That won’t be necessary.”
The nurse looked at her.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said—”
“My wife asked for another doctor.”
Sebastian’s voice surprised all of us.
Margaret looked at him.
“Sebastian—”
“She asked.”
He handed the baby back to the nurse and approached my bed.
His expression softened slightly.
“Tell me exactly what hurts.”
“My legs.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
He looked frustrated again.
“Valerie, if this is about Mom—”
“It’s not about your mother.”
I swallowed.
“Pull back the blanket.”
He stared at me.
“What?”
“Pull it back.”
Margaret stepped forward.
“She needs rest.”
My heart began pounding.
“Sebastian.”
Something in my voice finally reached him.
He grabbed the edge of the white blanket.
“Fine.”
Then he pulled it away.
Nobody spoke.
My hospital gown ended above my knees.
From my ankles almost to my thighs, my skin was covered in bruises.
Not ordinary bruises.
Finger-shaped marks.
Dark purple circles.
Red abrasions around both ankles.
And across my right thigh was a long rectangular mark I had never seen before.
Sebastian stopped breathing.
Camille’s phone slipped from her hand.
Margaret went completely still.
“What the hell…”
Sebastian stepped closer.
His face had lost all color.
He touched one mark lightly.
I flinched.
His head snapped up.
“Who did this?”
“I don’t know.”
Margaret recovered first.
“She probably injured herself during contractions.”
Sebastian turned.
“You said pregnancy caused the bruising.”
“It can.”
“Those are fingerprints.”
Margaret’s lips parted.
Before she could answer, the nurse returned with another physician.
A young doctor named Dr. Lena Ortiz.
She took one look at my legs and closed the door.
“Mrs. Bennett,” she said quietly, “has anyone restrained you recently?”
My blood turned cold.
“No.”
Dr. Ortiz examined the red marks around my ankles.
“These look consistent with restraints.”
Sebastian stared at his mother.
Margaret looked offended.
“That’s absurd.”
Then Dr. Ortiz touched the rectangular bruise on my thigh.
Her expression changed.
“There’s something under the skin.”
Sebastian looked at her.
“What?”
“I want imaging.”
Twenty minutes later, they took me downstairs.
Sebastian stayed beside me.
Margaret and Camille were told to remain outside.
The ultrasound technician ran the probe over my thigh.
She suddenly stopped.
Then called Dr. Ortiz.
They whispered.
Sebastian became impatient.
“What did you find?”
Dr. Ortiz looked at us.
“There appears to be a small implanted device beneath Mrs. Bennett’s skin.”
I stared at her.
“What kind of device?”
“We need to remove it to be certain.”
Sebastian gripped the bedrail.
An hour later, the doctor placed a tiny blood-streaked object inside a specimen container.
It was smaller than a grain of rice.
Dr. Ortiz looked disturbed.
“It appears to be a tracking chip.”
Sebastian stared through the glass window toward the hallway.
His mother was standing outside.
Watching us.
Then my phone buzzed on the bedside table.
A message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
There was no text.
Only a photograph.
My newborn daughter.
Taken less than fifteen minutes earlier.
Beneath it appeared one sentence.
May you like
THE TRANSFER WILL HAPPEN BEFORE SUNRISE.
And for the first time in six years of marriage, Sebastian looked at his family as though he finally understood that I might not survive trusting them.
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