“I’ve just come from Prentice Hospital in Chicago,” she explains. Her voice is hoarse. She clears her throat and tries again. “When Jackson went missing on Thursday, another baby was left in his place. This baby.” She places both hands on the squirming bundle.

A surprised cry ripples through the crowd and she waits for them to quiet. “No one would believe that another baby was left in his place. No one.” Her voice is hard. It’s a punch to the gut, but Crystal listens.

“But I know my child,” Bec continues. “I know Jackson. And now, we have proof.” She extends her hand and Jake lays a piece of paper in it. “We’ve just had this baby’s footprint scanned.” She explains what CertaScan is and how Jackson was entered into the system when he was first born. “This is confirmation that this child is not Jackson. Their footprints don’t match.”

A surprised cry escapes Crystal’s lips. Jess pushes in beside her. “No fucking way,” she whispers.

“What’s his name?” someone cries.

Rebecca leans in, both of her hands squeezing the sides of the podium. “His name is Oliver Watson. And he’s not my son.”

One unified gasp radiates through the crowd, Crystal included. Heads swivel and voices converge and clash. Her heart pounds so violently, she braces one hand against her chest.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Jess mutters. She bounces Baxter up and down. Their eyes meet in shock. “I didn’t believe her. All this time, I didn’t…”

“Son of a bitch.” Officer Toby practically jumps the bench to join Jake onstage. Caroline loops an arm around Rebecca’s shoulders, and Crystal finds herself sucked toward the stage, as people murmur and figure out what to do.

Jess calls out to her, but it’s as if she’s underwater. She makes out fragments of conversation, some still in disbelief and some figuring out what they can do to help. She walks toward the stage, where Toby and Jake talk privately.

“You’ve got to understand my position here, Jake. If this baby’s not hers, I’m not convinced Jackson is even still alive. You get what I’m saying?”

Crystal recoils, appalled. She’s heard stories like that—of mothers whose children die unexpectedly and they steal another baby to replace it. But Bec isn’t a child murderer. That much she knows. She steps onto the small stage, but Bec is gone.

A few people stop and stare up at her, as she has accidentally positioned herself behind the microphone. She crosses to the edge of the stage and shields her eyes as the last rays of the day drop from the flushed violet sky.

There.