“There you are.”
His voice wasn’t a question. It was a judgment.
The babies began to cry. Mateo let out a sharp wail. “Shh, sweetheart… nanny’s here,” she murmured, though her lips barely moved.
Footsteps crunched closer.
In her mind she saw handcuffs, prison bars—and worst of all, Mrs. Whitmore’s triumphant smile as she reclaimed the children.
“Don’t move,” Daniel barked.
Marisol lifted her head. Through tears and dust she saw him—tailored suit, jaw tight, eyes blazing. He didn’t see her torn uniform or bleeding heels. He saw only the woman who had “taken” his children.
“Where were you going?” he demanded. “Walking to the border with four babies? Are you insane?”
He crouched in front of her. She flinched but did not loosen her grip.
“Give them to me. Now.”
“No.” Her voice was hoarse—but steady.
“You’re their father,” she said. “But you don’t know what’s happening in your own house.”
He accused her of kidnapping, of trying to sell them. His mother had warned him, he said. Said Marisol was untrustworthy.
Then little Ben cried out—a different sound. Not fear. Pain.
Daniel frowned. “Why is he crying like that? And why is he wearing cleaning gloves?”