Cradle of Lies

Maya’s Voice

Sunday morning, Dorothy stood at her apartment window watching the sun rise over the parking lot. Kylee had been up twice in the night—once at 2 AM, again at 5. Dorothy had fed her both times in the dark, moving quietly even though there was no one to disturb.

Jake should be awake by now. Probably eating breakfast at the cabin with Marcus, getting ready for another day on the lake. No cell service. Unreachable.

Perfect.

Dorothy picked up her phone and called his number.

It rang once, twice, three times. Then voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me.” Dorothy’s voice was carefully controlled, just the right amount of breathless excitement mixed with exhaustion. “So, um, the baby came last night. Saturday night around eleven, I started having contractions. I drove myself to Mercy General and she was born this morning at 3:47 AM.”

She paused, letting emotion creep into her voice. “She’s perfect, Jake. Seven pounds, eight ounces. So much dark hair. I named her Kylee, like we talked about. Kylee Dorothy Bishop.”

Another pause. “I know you’re probably out on the lake without service. I’m okay, we’re both okay. But when you get this—come home. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

Dorothy ended the call and set the phone down with shaking hands.

It was done. The message was sent. By the time Jake got it and raced home, it would be Monday or Tuesday. Two or three days after the “birth.” Enough time for the story to settle, for the timeline to seem real.

From the bedroom, Kylee started crying. Dorothy went to her, prepared a bottle, settled into the routine. Feed, burp, change, rock.

While Kylee ate, Dorothy composed the text to Lisa that she’d been planning: Contractions started Saturday night. Had the baby this morning at Mercy General. Baby girl, 7 lbs 8 oz. We’re both doing great!

Three dots appeared immediately. Then: OMG! Congratulations!! Name? Can we visit??

Dorothy typed back: Kylee Dorothy. Not quite ready for visitors yet—want to rest a bit. Will let you know!

Of course! Rest up mama. So happy for you!

Dorothy sent similar messages to Patricia and her mother. Short, excited, vague about details. She’d fill in the story later when people asked questions.

By noon, she’d gotten dozens of responses. Congratulations, excitement, requests for photos. Dorothy sent back the same reply to everyone: Thanks! Will send pics soon, still recovering.

She couldn’t send photos. Not yet. Not until enough time had passed that people wouldn’t compare newborn Kylee to the Amber Alert photos that were probably circulating.

Dorothy turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. She flipped through channels until she found a local news station.

“—mother is making a public plea for her daughter’s safe return. Nineteen-year-old Maya Martinez spoke this afternoon about baby Andrea, who was taken from St. Catherine’s Medical Center Friday night.”

Dorothy’s hand froze on the remote.

The screen showed a press conference. Maya standing at a podium, Detective Chen beside her. Maya looked broken—pale, exhausted, her eyes red from crying.

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

Dorothy felt her chest tighten.

“Someone took her from my hospital room Friday night. While I was sleeping. While I was recovering from giving birth.” Tears streamed down Maya’s 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, and for a moment Dorothy felt like she was looking right at her.

“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.”

Maya’s voice broke. “Please. Please give me back my baby.”

Dorothy turned off the TV with shaking hands.

She sat in silence for a long moment, her heart pounding. Maya’s face was burned into her mind. The desperation. The grief. The way she’d begged directly to whoever had taken Andrea.

To Dorothy.

Dorothy looked at Kylee sleeping peacefully in the bassinet. She didn’t look like she was missing her mother. Didn’t look traumatized or scared. She just looked like a baby.

Dorothy’s phone buzzed. A news alert: Updated Amber Alert for Baby Andrea Martinez. New photos released.

She clicked on it before she could stop herself.

The alert showed photos now—not stock images, but actual baby pictures. A newborn with dark hair and brown eyes, wrapped in a hospital blanket. The caption read: Photos of mother as infant. Andrea believed to have similar appearance.

Dorothy stared at the images. Then she walked to the bassinet and looked down at Kylee.

Dark hair. Brown eyes. The same general features.

But did she actually look like the photos in the Amber Alert? Or did Dorothy just think she did because all newborns looked somewhat similar?

The photos showed a baby—could be any baby. Round face, tiny nose, that unfocused newborn expression. Kylee had the same dark coloring, but beyond that…

Dorothy couldn’t tell. Didn’t know if someone looking at Kylee would immediately think of the Amber Alert, or if the similarities were just the normal variations all newborns had.

She picked up her phone again and looked at the photos more carefully. Tried to compare them objectively to the baby in her apartment.

They could be the same baby. Or they could be completely different babies who just happened to share the same coloring.

Dorothy set the phone down and pressed her hands to her face.

What had she expected? That Andrea would look completely different from her own baby photos? That there would be some obvious, glaring difference that would make Dorothy feel better about what she’d done?

There was no feeling better about this.

She’d stolen a baby from a nineteen-year-old girl who had no one. Who’d been alone through pregnancy and labor and delivery. Who’d held her daughter for barely an hour before Dorothy took her away.

And now Maya was on TV, begging for Andrea back, while Dorothy sat in her apartment pretending everything was fine.

Kylee stirred in the bassinet and made a small sound. Dorothy went to her immediately, picked her up, held her close.

“You’re mine now,” Dorothy whispered. “You’re Kylee. Not Andrea. Kylee.”

But even as she said it, she heard Maya’s voice: Please give me back my baby.

Dorothy spent the rest of Sunday checking her phone. Jake still hadn’t called back. He was still out there on the lake, unreachable, unaware that his life had completely changed.

The Amber Alert was everywhere now. Shared thousands of times on social media. The photos of infant Maya were being circulated with pleas to look for baby Andrea.

Dorothy’s coworkers were sharing it. Patricia had shared it. Even her mother had posted it on f*******: with a comment: So heartbreaking. Praying they find this baby.

None of them knew. None of them suspected that Dorothy—who’d just sent them messages about giving birth to her own daughter—was the one who’d taken Andrea.

By evening, Dorothy tried to imagine what would happen when Jake came home. When he walked through the door and saw Kylee for the first time. Would he be suspicious? Would he ask questions? Would he look at this baby and know something was wrong?

Or would he just be happy? Relieved that the pregnancy he’d been so nervous about had ended with a healthy baby?

Dorothy wanted to believe it would be the latter. That Jake would be so excited, so overwhelmed, that he wouldn’t think to question anything. Wouldn’t wonder why Kylee looked a little different than expected, or why Dorothy seemed anxious, or why any of the dozen small details didn’t quite add up.

She had to believe that. Had to trust that nine months of lying had prepared her for this final performance.

At 10 PM, Dorothy put Kylee down for the night and climbed into bed still wearing the padding. She stared at the ceiling in the dark and listened to Kylee’s small breathing sounds from the bassinet.

Tomorrow Jake might call. Might get her message and start the drive home. By Tuesday evening, he’d be here.

Two more days of being alone with Kylee. Two more days of this secret.

And then everything would change. Then Dorothy would have to convince Jake—and everyone else—that this stolen baby was theirs.

Dorothy closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but all she could see was Maya’s face on TV. All she could hear was her voice breaking as she begged for Andrea back.

Please give me back my baby.

Dorothy pulled the covers over her head and tried to shut it out.

But Maya’s voice followed her into her dreams.