Part 2I Found His Murder Plan Online

"Shut up!"

I ripped my hand out of his grasp, stepping back as if he had burned me.

David immediately threw his hands up, his expression melting into deep, apologetic sorrow. "I'm sorry. I'm just out of my mind with worry. Don't be mad at me, please. Let me... let me go find a cafeteria. I'll get us some coffee."

As I watched his retreating back disappear down the fluorescent hallway, that icy dread returned, wrapping its fingers around my spine.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped it twice before I finally managed to open the browser. I found my history. I clicked on the post.

The original poster had added a new comment just fifteen minutes ago.

Forget it. The stuff didn't work right. Tossed and turned all night at the hospital, but they managed to save her.

A user replied: Are you going to try again?

The poster: I’ll look for an opening in the next few days.

My thumb froze over the screen. It felt as though all the blood had been siphoned from my veins.

I had no concrete proof that this anonymous man was my husband.

But I couldn't afford to gamble with my daughter's life.

I texted my managing partner right then and there, taking an indefinite leave of absence. For three days, I did not leave the hospital. Not for a second.

Sophie’s fever became a terrifying pendulum—spiking dangerously high, dropping, then violently spiking again. The doctors were baffled. They couldn't isolate a bacterial or viral cause, though one specialist murmured something about "undetectable metabolic synthetics."

When I heard that, I dug my fingernails so deeply into my palms they bled.

During those three days, David came straight to the hospital after work. He brought me fresh clothes, hot takeout from my favorite Thai place, and Sophie’s favorite stuffed rabbit. He was the picture of a devoted, shattered father. Even the PICU nurses teared up watching him sing softly to her unconscious form.

But my heart remained a tight, defensive knot in my chest.

On the evening of the third day, Sophie finally seemed to turn a corner. Her color improved, and her breathing steadied.

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding for seventy-two hours. It was only then that I realized I smelled like stale sweat and fear. Desperate for a shower, I hired a private overnight nurse to sit by the bed, grabbed my keys, and drove home to pack a proper bag.

The house was eerily quiet when I stepped inside.

But as I walked toward the bedroom, I heard David’s voice floating in from the back patio. He was on his cell phone.

"Mom, stop pushing me, okay? You think I don't want a son?"

I froze in the hallway, pressing my back against the wall.

Through the cracked glass door, his mother’s sharp, nasal voice bled through the receiver. I couldn't make out every word, but the aggressive, demanding tone was unmistakable.

"I'm figuring it out, aren't I?" David snapped back, his voice tight with an ugly sort of ambition I had never heard from him before. "Just relax. I promise you'll have your grandson. You think I’m going to let all of this money go to a girl? It's staying in our family."

My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird. I heard the phone click off. I scrambled silently back to the entryway, loudly dropping my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.

Ten seconds later, the patio door slid open.

David stopped in the hallway, blinking at me in surprise. "Nina? What are you doing here? I thought you were staying at the hospital."

I turned my face away, pretending to hang up my coat so he couldn't see my eyes. "I just needed real clothes and a shower."

He smiled, a soft, perfectly crinkled smile. "Well, why don't you sleep here tonight in a real bed? I'll head back to the hospital and sit with Sophie. You need your rest, baby."

The terror spiked so fast it tasted like copper in my mouth.

"No," I said, keeping my voice painfully casual. "You have that big presentation tomorrow. I've got it covered."

I tried to walk past him to the bedroom, but his hand shot out, wrapping gently but firmly around my wrist. His face fell into a mask of pure, wounded guilt.

"You've been so distant lately," he whispered, stepping closer. "Are you... do you blame me for this?"

"Of course not."

"I know you do," he pressed, his voice breaking perfectly on cue. "When she got sick... she was fine when I put her down. I just sat on my phone for a while. If I had checked her forehead sooner... God, Nina, I haven't slept in days. I wanted to stay with you both at the hospital, but I could feel you pushing me away." He swallowed, a tear slipping down his cheek. "And when I brought up having another baby... I was just trying to give us hope. I was trying to comfort you."

Something twisted painfully in my chest.

Look at him, my mind argued. This was the man who had rubbed my back through six months of brutal morning sickness. The man who had taken an entire month of unpaid leave to change diapers and make me bone-broth soup postpartum. The man who wept at our wedding.

How could a man like that poison his own little girl?

I let out a shaky breath. Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe the trauma of the ER had fractured my reality, making me project a random, deranged internet post onto my grieving husband.

"I don't blame you," I lied, forcing my voice to soften. "Just... don't overthink it."

His eyes instantly lit up. "Really?"

"Really. You look exhausted, David. Sleep here tonight. I'll watch the monitors."

I watched his shoulders slump with visible relief, and the paranoid knot in my stomach finally loosened. The internet poster was probably just an edgy troll. I was projecting.

"Okay," he nodded, pulling me into a hug. "Then you go back to the hospital. Call me if anything changes."

I drove back, finally feeling a sliver of sanity return.

But at 11:00 PM, my phone rang. The caller ID said St. Jude’s PICU.

"Nina?" the head nurse's voice was tight with controlled panic. "You need to get up here right now. Sophie is crashing."