Chapter 4 - The Interrogation
Detective Sarah Jenkins was a no-nonsense woman with sharp eyes and a gentle voice. She pulled up a chair beside my hospital bed, flipping open a worn notepad.
"Mrs. Hamilton," she said softly. "I know you've just given birth. I know you're in pain. But I need you to walk me through exactly what happened."
I told her everything. From Daniel’s strange behavior during the delivery, to Rebecca bursting into the room, to the confrontation, and the terrifying recording.
"Where did your daughter get the phone?" Jenkins asked.
"It’s mine," I said. "But Daniel took it from my bedside table while I was in active labor. He said he was taking it to charge it in the waiting room so the ringing wouldn't stress me out. I didn't question him."
Rebecca, who was sitting on the edge of my bed eating a cherry popsicle a kind nurse had brought her, spoke up.
"Dad gave the phone to Grandma," she said, swinging her legs. "I was in the waiting room with Grandma. She put it in her purse. But then she went to talk to a doctor, and she left her purse on the chair. I wanted to play games on it."
Rebecca looked down at her hands. "But when I turned it on, the voice memo app was already open. It looked like it was recording. I went to find Dad to tell him his phone was acting weird. I found him in the stairwell. He was talking to Grandma and that mean nurse. I hid behind the door. And I heard them."
She looked up at the detective, her eight-year-old eyes holding far too much trauma. "He said Mommy was crazy. He said they were taking Ethan. So I pressed the red button to record them. Then I ran to Mommy's room."
Detective Jenkins stopped writing. She looked at Rebecca with deep, profound respect. "You are a very brave little girl, Rebecca. You saved your brother today."
Jenkins turned back to me. "We have your husband and your mother-in-law in separate holding rooms downstairs. They are sticking to a very aggressive story."
"What story?" I asked, my heart pounding.
"They claim that you have a severe history of postpartum psychosis. Your husband produced medical records showing you were treated for violent delusions after Rebecca’s birth. They said they were acting under the emergency advice of a private psychiatrist to remove the baby for its own safety."
"That's a lie!" I gasped, clutching Ethan tighter. "I had mild postpartum depression. I took medication for three months and talked to a therapist. I was never violent! I never had delusions!"
Jenkins nodded slowly. "I believe you. But here is the problem, Eleanor. The medical records they handed the police are stamped and signed by a licensed doctor. Dr. Aris Thorne."
The name hit me like a physical blow.
Dr. Thorne was Lorraine’s personal physician. He was on the payroll of the Hamilton estate. He was a concierge doctor for the ultra-wealthy.
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"They forged my medical history," I whispered, the sheer scale of their plot finally dawning on me.
"They did," Jenkins agreed. "And if your daughter hadn't caught them on tape admitting to the conspiracy, they would have walked out of this hospital with your son. And you would be sitting in a padded room right now."
