“I barely even know him,” I whispered.
“But his mother trusted you more than anyone,” he reminded me.
I looked down at the letter in my hand and remembered how Danielle had trusted me once. I went back into the room, pulled my chair closer to the bed, and promised, “I am not leaving you tonight.”
For the first time since I arrived, he breathed like he actually believed me. By morning, the hospital room had turned into a strange island of fear, endless paperwork, and lukewarm coffee. Toby slept in short, fitful bursts, and every time a cart rattled past in the hall, he jolted awake and searched for me.
I stayed in the chair beside him, answering questions from nurses, police, and a kind child services worker named Daria Jenkins. At seven twenty in the morning, Scott arrived and I recognized him instantly before anyone even spoke his name. He was older, heavier, and dressed like a man trying to look trustworthy in a clean jacket and polished shoes.
He approached the nurses’ station while holding a folder. “My son is here, Toby Blackwood, and I am his father.”
