Liam and I had dreamed of becoming parents for years.
After several failed attempts at getting pregnant, we finally had our daughter.
One exhausting week in, he offered, “Let me and Mom take her for a walk — you nap.”
Grateful, I laid down and turned on the baby monitor.
Then I heard it. Liam forgot to turn off the baby monitor.
MIL: “You didn’t tell her, right?”
Him: “No. Of course not.”
Her: “Good. Be careful. We don’t need the problems. If she finds out, everything’s ruined. Take the baby and leave quietly. Got it?”
Him: “Yeah, Mom. I’m not a kid.”
Then —
“Crap, the monitor’s still on.”
Click.
I sat up, heart pounding. Take the baby and leave? What plan?
They came home later, acting normal. Laughing. Calm.
I barely slept, clutching the baby close. Maybe I misheard something?
But the very next morning — the crib was empty.
I ran out.
Liam’s things were packed. Her clothes, her bottles — GONE.
I thought I was living a nightmare. But before I could even scream, a car pulled into the driveway.
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I froze on the porch, heartbeat echoing in my ears. My mind raced — Were they back to finish what they started? Was this part of the plan?
The car door opened.
But it wasn’t Liam. It wasn’t his mother either.
A woman stepped out — tall, sharp features, dark sunglasses. She looked straight at me and asked, “Are you Ava?”
I nodded, arms crossed protectively.
She pulled a badge from her coat pocket. “Detective Monroe. I need to speak to you. It’s about your husband.”
My stomach dropped. “What… about him?”
She glanced around cautiously, then spoke in a lower voice. “You’re not the only one he’s done this to.”
“What do you mean?” I whispered.
She looked me square in the eyes. “He’s not who he says he is. His real name is Daniel Pierce. We’ve been tracking him across state lines. He has a history of marrying women, having children — then disappearing with the babies.”
I staggered back. “No. That can’t be right. We’ve been together five years. He — he’s not like that!”
“Did he ever let you meet his father?” she asked.
I blinked. “No. He said his dad died before we met.”
The detective nodded grimly. “Exactly. The ‘mother’ who took the baby? Not his mom. She’s his partner. We believe they’re part of a black market adoption ring.”
I nearly collapsed onto the steps. “But why? Why my baby?”
She softened, stepping closer. “Because you fit the profile. Isolated. Emotionally vulnerable after birth. He planned this.”
I couldn’t breathe. “We have to find her.”
“We will,” she promised. “But we need your help. Do you have anything — a burner number, old addresses, anything unusual he did recently?”
Tears welled in my eyes as I tried to think. Then I remembered — a receipt in his jacket pocket. A gas station near the state border. Not one we’d ever used.
I ran inside, rummaged through the laundry, and handed her the crumpled slip.
She scanned it. “Good. That might be the lead we need.”
Her radio crackled. Another officer’s voice:
“We’ve got eyes on a vehicle matching the description near Route 11. Possible baby seat in the back.”
The detective met my eyes. “This could be it.”
I didn’t wait to ask. I just said, “I’m going with you.”
She nodded once. “Then let’s go get your daughter back.”
