“They were only outside a few minutes.”
“The doctor can tell us how many minutes it takes for a baby to die from exposure,” I replied.
She went silent.
Twelve minutes later, the ambulance arrived.
The paramedics confirmed hypothermia.
Emily explained that she’d been outside nearly two hours.
My mother covered her mouth.
Not because she felt guilty.
Because the neighbors had started watching.
“Oh wonderful,” she muttered. “Now everyone will talk.”
I didn’t answer.
After the ambulance left, my father held out his hand.
“Give me the house keys. Tomorrow we’ll sit down and discuss this like men.”
Instead, I picked up my soaked duffel bag.
Hidden beneath the lining was a waterproof folder sealed with black tape.
Inside were bank statements.
Property records.
Corporate documents.
Financial audits.
Email archives.
Military investigation reports.
For six months, while my parents believed I was trapped halfway around the world, I had quietly tracked every transaction.
