Part 2
Airport police brought us into a secure interview room near Gate B24 while Patricia was taken away in another direction. Even through the corridor walls, I could still hear her voice faintly, rising and dropping like an alarm that refused to stop.
Lily had finally stopped screaming, but she kept hiccupping against my chest. Every few seconds, her tiny fingers grabbed at my shirt, clutching the fabric like she was afraid someone would try to take her from me again.
Daniel paced the small room with one hand pressed to his forehead.
“We shouldn’t get on that plane,” he said.
“We can’t stay here either,” I whispered.
Sergeant Martinez, the officer who had spoken to us at the checkpoint, sat across from me with a notepad in her hand. She looked to be in her forties, calm, focused, and serious in a way that made the room feel steadier. At that moment, her composure was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
“You said she had threatened you before,” Martinez said. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”
I forced myself to breathe.
“After my father died, Patricia started coming to our apartment. At first, it seemed harmless. She brought baby clothes. Food. Little gifts. Then she started saying Lily looked like my dad. She said Lily was his second chance.”
My throat tightened.
“She asked to keep her overnight. I told her no. She cried. Then she accused me of keeping my father’s bloodline away from her.”
Daniel stopped pacing.
“Two months ago, she called Child Protective Services on us.”
Martinez looked up from her notes.
“It was anonymous,” I said, “but the claims were exactly the kind of things Patricia says. That I was too anxious to be a mother. That Daniel worked too much. That Lily cried when Patricia left because she knew Patricia was her ‘real caretaker.’”
I shook my head.
“The caseworker came. Lily was healthy. Everything was fine. They closed it.”
“And after that?” Martinez asked.
Daniel’s voice dropped.
“She left a voicemail. She said, ‘One day you’ll turn around and she’ll be gone, and then you’ll understand what loss feels like.’”
Martinez’s pen stopped moving.
I swallowed hard.
“We reported it,” I said. “But we were told it was too vague.”
Martinez’s face didn’t change much, but her voice sharpened.
“It is much less vague after today.”
Another officer opened the door and stepped inside, handing her a printed page.
Martinez read it.
Her expression tightened.
My stomach twisted.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Mrs. Whitmore told officers she had permission to take the baby from the airport.”
Daniel snapped, “That’s a lie.”
Martinez kept reading.
“She says your brother, Noah, called her this morning and told her you were fleeing the state to hide the child from her.”
Heat rushed into my face.
Noah.
My younger brother was twenty-four. Impulsive. Emotional. Too trusting for his own good. He still insisted Patricia was lonely, not dangerous.
He had promised me he wouldn’t tell her anything about our move to Seattle.
With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and called him.
He answered on the second ring, sounding cheerful and completely unaware.
“Em? Are you boarding?”
“Did you tell Patricia about our flight?”
Silence.
“Noah.”
His voice shrank.
“She was crying,” he said. “She said you blocked her and she just wanted to say goodbye to Lily. I didn’t think she would…”
“She broke through airport security and tried to pull my baby out of my arms.”
His breath stopped.
“What?”
Sergeant Martinez leaned forward.
“Put him on speaker.”
Noah’s voice trembled as he told us Patricia had shown up at his apartment at seven that morning. She told him she might hurt herself if she lost “the last piece of Richard.”
Richard was our father.
Noah panicked.
So he gave her the airline, the terminal, and our rough departure time.
By the time he finished, he was crying.
Martinez took the phone from me.
“Mr. Hayes, this is Sergeant Alicia Martinez with Massport Police. Do not delete any messages. Do not contact Patricia Whitmore. An officer will be reaching out to you shortly.”
Then she handed the phone back to me.
Outside the room, our flight’s boarding announcement echoed through the gate area.
Daniel looked at the sergeant.
“Are we allowed to leave?”
Martinez glanced at Lily, then back at me.
“Legally, yes,” she said. “But I strongly advise you to delay your departure long enough for us to complete an emergency protective report and coordinate with authorities in Seattle. Mrs. Whitmore crossed a federal security checkpoint and attempted to take your child. This is extremely serious.”
For the first time that morning, I actually believed someone understood.
Not someone telling me I was being dramatic.
Not someone insisting Patricia was just grieving.
Someone official.
Someone calm.
Someone armed, clear-eyed, and certain.
And she believed me.
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