For the first time in his life, Rowan Bellamy held his child.
And somewhere beneath the grief, the shock, and the terrible weight of what had been stolen, something new began to grow.
Not certainty.
Not relief.
Responsibility.
Dr. Kline returned with the copied transfer document, her face composed but troubled. “I made three copies. One for you, Megan. One for your attorney. One stays with me.”
Rowan looked up. “You could be putting yourself at risk.”
The doctor’s eyes moved to the babies. “Mr. Bellamy, every child deserves to be found by someone who refuses to look away.”
Megan held Noah close and lowered her gaze.
Rowan thought of his mother’s message.
Come to the house tonight, Rowan. Alone. It is time you learned why your father really died.
For six years, his father’s death had been treated as a finished chapter. A heart attack after a late meeting. A family tragedy spoken of in lowered voices and expensive sympathy cards. Evelyn Bellamy had managed the funeral the way she managed everything else—with elegance, precision, and no room for questions.
