The Stillwater Girls(68)

Brant takes my hand. I hold my breath.

“Results are in,” she says, rose-colored lips twitching. “She’s your daughter.”

The two of us collapse against one another, and my husband’s arms surround me.

I knew. He knew. But to hear it—to see it—makes it all the more real.

“When should we tell her?” Brant asks.

For the past thirty-six hours, we’ve kept Evie company in the hospital, ensured she was comfortable, and been involved in every aspect of her care—as much as the hospital would allow. But without legal proof that she’s ours, we were forced to keep our distance. When she wondered who we were, Wren told her we were a couple of kindhearted people who took her in and wanted to help them.

Pettigrew lifts her left brow. “Honestly? The sooner the better. And I’m more than happy to facilitate that conversation.”

“I’d like to tell her myself,” I say, my gaze floating between theirs. “This whole thing happened because of me.”

Those words are heavier on the outside than the inside. Saying them out loud instead of thinking about them gives them more weight, makes them real. I haven’t had time yet to process any of this, to properly deal with my guilt and the guilt that’s going to wash over me in waves the more I get to know my daughter, but all I can do is take it one day at a time and lean on my husband when things get too intense.

“But it wasn’t your fault, Nic.” Brant reaches across the table, placing his hand over mine. “You were sick. You’ve got to stop blaming yourself.”

“Easier said than done,” I tell him.

The warmth of his hand over mine as his peaceful green eyes offer me serenity reminds me that Hannah isn’t the only person I’ve wronged in all this.

I never should have doubted him. I never should have assumed the worst from the person who loves me most in this world.

I’ll tell him that, and I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to him, but first things first.

“So do we just . . . lead in with anything in particular, or how should we approach this?” Brant asks.

Dr. Pettigrew’s lips bunch together as she concentrates. “Be as direct as you can without making yourself uncomfortable. Speak from the heart. There’s not going to be an easy or perfect way to tell her what happened, but as her biological parents and soon-to-be custodial parents, it’s important that she understands what happened and why she’s going to live with you.”

Rising from my chair, I tug my blouse into place.

“Ready?” I ask Brant.

He stands, nodding.

“Would you like me to join you?” the doctor asks.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “But thank you.”

She nods, and I meet Brant around the other side of the table, slipping my hand into his. Together we return to the other end of the hall, knocking lightly before showing ourselves into Evie’s room.

Wren is lying next to her on the bed, the two of them laughing at the cartoons flickering across the screen.

“Wren, could you give us a moment with Evie?” Brant asks, clearing his throat.

Wren sits up, brushing her hair back into place, before padding out of the room and closing the door.

Evie sits up, watching the two of us, her smile fading.

Pushing chairs to either side of her bed, we situate ourselves. Brant gives me a nod, and I force the heated flush from my ears, gathering my thoughts.

“Evie, do you know who we are?” I ask.

“You’re Brant and Nicolette,” she says. “You’re the people that are helping Wren.”

“Right, but we’re more than that,” I say. “When you leave here tomorrow, you’re going to come home with Wren, to our house . . . which will be your house.”

Her blonde brows meet. “I don’t understand.”

“Your mama,” I say, “the one who raised you . . . she isn’t who you thought she was.”

“What?” she asks.

“She kidnapped you. All three of you,” I say gently. “Do you know what that means?”

She shakes her head.

“You didn’t belong to her. She stole you from your mothers and raised you as her own.” I want so badly to reach out, brush her fine, blonde hair away from her striking green eyes, cup her sweet little hand beneath mine. All in due time, I suppose. “It gets a little more complicated than that, and one of these days we’ll sit down and tell you everything you could ever want to know, but basically, Evie . . . she took you from me when you were five days old.”

And that’s exactly the way the police describe it. They said it was a kidnapping since I wasn’t in the right frame of mind and couldn’t have willingly given up my baby.

Evie’s gaze moves to the cartoon on the TV.

“Where’s Mama?” she asks a moment later. I imagine she needs more time to process everything I’ve just said, therapy with Dr. Pettigrew, immersion in her new normal. It’s going to be a long road, but studying my daughter’s gorgeous green gaze, I’m filled with nothing short of hope.

Miracles happen every day.

I’m looking at one right now.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I say, my hand aching to take hers. “She got hurt very badly in the woods, and she’s no longer . . . with us.”