Cradle of Lies

Press Conference

Sunday morning, Maya woke up in her apartment for the first time since giving birth.

The hospital had finally released her Saturday evening. The doctor had been reluctant—“You just delivered, you need to rest”—but Maya couldn’t stay in that room anymore. Couldn’t look at the empty bassinet for another second.

A victim advocate had driven her home. Had helped her inside, made sure she had food in the fridge, left her with a stack of pamphlets about grief counseling and trauma support.

Maya had thrown them in the trash the moment she left.

Now she sat on her couch in the same clothes she’d worn home from the hospital, staring at the nursery corner she’d set up in her studio apartment. A borrowed crib from a coworker. A small changing table from Goodwill. A package of newborn diapers still unopened.

Everything waiting for a baby who wasn’t here.

Her body ached. Her breasts were starting to hurt, filling with milk for a baby who couldn’t drink it. Every physical reminder that she’d given birth made the loss more real.

Maya’s phone buzzed. Another text from someone at work: Thinking of you. Let me know if you need anything.

She’d gotten dozens of messages since the Amber Alert went out Saturday. People from the coffee shop, old high school friends she hadn’t talked to in years, even her father in Florida had sent a brief: Saw the news. I’m sorry.

Everyone was sorry. But sorry didn’t bring Andrea back.

Maya opened i********: and looked at the Amber Alert that had been shared hundreds of times. The stock photo of a random newborn. The description: Baby girl, Hispanic, approximately 7 lbs 8 oz, dark hair, brown eyes.

It could be any baby. There was nothing about it that said Andrea.

A knock on the door made her jump.

Maya looked through the peephole and saw Detective Chen standing in the hallway.

She opened the door.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early,” Chen said. “Can I come in?”

Maya stepped aside. Chen entered the small apartment, her eyes taking in the nursery corner, the hospital paperwork on the coffee table, Maya’s exhausted face.

“How are you doing?”

“How do you think?” Maya’s voice was flat.

Chen nodded. “I wanted to update you on the investigation. We’ve been reviewing security footage from the entire hospital and interviewing staff. We have some leads we’re following up on.”

“What kind of leads?”

“I can’t share specifics yet. But we’re making progress.” Chen pulled out her phone. “I also wanted to ask you something. The Amber Alert we issued—the photo isn’t Andrea. Do you have any baby pictures of yourself? Or of Andrea’s father? Something that might help us show what she actually looks like?”

Maya’s heart sank. She didn’t have any photos of Andrea. But maybe—

“I have pictures of me as a baby,” she said slowly. “My mom kept a photo album. I brought it when I moved here.”

“Can I see it?”

Maya went to her closet and pulled down a cardboard box from the top shelf. Inside were the few things she’d kept from her childhood—her mother’s jewelry, some old school papers, and one photo album with a worn cover.

She brought it to the couch and opened it. The first page showed her mother holding a newborn Maya. The second page had more—Maya at one day old, two days old, a week old.

Chen leaned over to look. “May I?”

Maya handed her the album.

Chen studied the photos carefully. “Did Andrea look similar to you as a baby? Same coloring, same features?”

Maya looked at the photos of infant Maya and tried to compare them to the brief time she’d held Andrea. “Yes. The same dark hair. And her face—the shape was similar. Her eyes too.”

“Would you say these photos are a good representation of what Andrea looks like?”

Maya nodded, her throat tight. “Yes. She looked just like that.”

“Can I take photos of these? We can update the Amber Alert with a better approximation of what Andrea actually looks like. Right now we’re using a stock photo. This will be much more helpful.”

“Yes. Take whatever you need.”

Chen photographed several images from different angles, making notes on her phone. “This will help. People will have a much better idea of who to look for.”

“Will it make a difference?” Maya asked. “The Amber Alert?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Chen looked up from her phone. “Most abducted infants are found within the first forty-eight hours. People are looking. Every law enforcement agency in the state has Andrea’s information. Someone will see something.”

“It’s been almost two days.”

“I know. But we’re not giving up.” Chen closed the photo album carefully. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Okay.”

“Have you thought about making a public statement? Appealing directly to whoever took Andrea?”

Maya stared at her. “What would I say?”

“Whatever you want. Sometimes hearing from the mother—seeing her pain, her desperation—it can make a difference. It makes the baby real to people. Makes them more likely to call in tips.”

“You want me to go on TV?”

“If you’re willing. We can arrange it. Keep it brief, keep it controlled. You’d just talk about Andrea, ask for her safe return.”

Maya thought about it. The idea of going on camera, of everyone seeing her face, judging her for losing her baby—it made her want to throw up.

But if it helped find Andrea…

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you. I’ll set it up for this afternoon. We’ll do it at the station, make sure you’re comfortable.” Chen stood. “In the meantime, if you remember anything else about Friday night—anything at all, even if it seems unimportant—call me immediately.”

After Chen left, Maya sat with the photo album in her lap. She stared at the pictures of herself as a baby, held by a mother who was gone now. Her mom had died when Maya was sixteen—cancer, fast and brutal. Maya had been shuffled to her father and his new wife, but that had fallen apart within a year.

She’d been on her own since she was seventeen.

And now she’d lost her own daughter before she’d even had a chance to be a mother.

Maya touched the photo of infant Maya in her mother’s arms. She wished her mom was here now. Wished she could ask her what to do, how to survive this, how to find the strength to keep going when everything felt broken.

But her mom was gone. And Andrea was gone. And Maya was alone with a body that ached for a baby who wasn’t there.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Detective Chen: Updated Amber Alert going out at noon with new photos. Press conference scheduled for 3 PM. I’ll pick you up at 2:30.

Maya set the phone down and went to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror—pale, exhausted, her eyes red and swollen from two days of crying.

This was what she’d have to show the world. This broken version of herself, begging for her daughter back.

She turned on the shower and stepped under the water, letting it run over her. Her body felt foreign—still swollen from pregnancy, breasts aching with milk, everything tender and sore from delivery.

She should be at home with her baby. Should be figuring out how to change diapers and learning Andrea’s different cries and marveling at her tiny fingers.

Instead, she was preparing to go on television and beg a stranger to give her daughter back.

Maya stayed in the shower until the water ran cold. Then she got dressed in clean clothes for the first time since Friday, tried to make herself look presentable, and waited for 2:30 to come.

At exactly 2:30, Detective Chen knocked on her door.

“Ready?” she asked gently.

Maya wasn’t ready. Would never be ready. But she nodded anyway.

The drive to the police station was quiet. Chen made small talk about the weather, about the route they were taking, obvious attempts to keep Maya calm. Maya stared out the window and said nothing.

At the station, they led her to a small room with cameras set up. A woman in a suit introduced herself as the police spokesperson. A makeup artist offered to help Maya look “camera ready.”

Maya declined. She didn’t want to look put together. She wanted people to see exactly what this had done to her.

At 3 PM, they led her to a podium. The room was full of reporters, cameras, microphones. Maya’s hands shook as she gripped the edges of the podium.

Detective Chen stood beside her. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Maya looked at the cameras. Somewhere out there, someone was watching. Maybe the person who had Andrea. Maybe someone who had seen something. Maybe no one at all.

She took a breath.

“My name is Maya Martinez,” she said, her voice trembling. “On Friday, I gave birth to my daughter Andrea. She was perfect. Seven pounds, eight ounces. Dark hair and brown eyes.”

Maya’s voice cracked. She paused, trying to hold herself together.

“Someone took her from my hospital room Friday night. While I was sleeping. While I was recovering from giving birth.” Tears started streaming down her face. “Andrea is two days old. She needs her mother. She needs to eat, to be held, to be taken care of.”

Maya looked directly into the camera.

“If you have my daughter—if you’re watching this—please bring her back. Please. I’m not angry. I just want her home safe. She belongs with me. She needs me.”

Her voice broke completely. “Please. Please give me back my baby.”

Detective Chen stepped forward as Maya’s knees buckled. They led her away from the cameras, back to the small room, gave her water and tissues and time to fall apart.

When Maya finally looked up, Chen was showing her something on her phone.

“The updated Amber Alert just went out,” she said. “With the photos from your baby album. People all over the state are seeing this right now.”

Maya looked at the screen. There was her infant face, recreated in the Amber Alert. Baby Andrea Martinez. Last seen Friday night at St. Catherine’s Medical Center.

“Someone will recognize her,” Chen said. “Someone will call. We’re going to find her, Maya.”

Maya wanted to believe her. Wanted to think that showing her face, sharing those photos, begging on camera would make a difference.

But Andrea had been gone for two days. Forty-eight hours. And every hour that passed made it less likely she’d ever come home.

Maya closed her eyes and tried to remember what Andrea felt like in her arms. The weight of her. The warmth. The tiny sounds she made.

She had to remember. Had to hold onto those memories because they were all she had left.