Yet Oliver always calmed in her arms and screamed the moment she laid him back down.
“You’re scared,” she murmured. “Something hurts, doesn’t it?”
She laid him on the changing table. Under the bright light, she saw it clearly: red welts scattered across his back. Small. Inflamed.
Bite marks.
Her chest tightened. She turned to the crib and pressed her hand against the mattress.
It was damp.
That shouldn’t have been possible.
She checked the hallway. Silent.
With shaking hands, she yanked off the sheet.
At first, she thought the shadows were playing tricks on her. Then she saw movement.
The mattress was rotting. Alive.
Larvae crawled through blackened fabric, burrowing in and out of decayed padding. Mold, dead insects—things no newborn should ever touch.
Naomi staggered back, clapping a hand over her mouth. She snapped photos—of the mattress, the infestation, Oliver’s back.
Then she pressed the baby against her chest, skin to skin.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “This ends now.”
She turned—and froze.
Eleanor stood in the doorway, pale, rigid.
But it wasn’t shock in her eyes.
It was recognition.
“Put my son down,” Eleanor said flatly.