Cradle of Lies

Paper Trail

Monday morning, Dorothy woke to Kylee’s crying and immediately checked her phone.

No missed calls. No voicemails. No texts from Jake.

Which meant he still hadn’t gotten her message. Still out on the lake without service, completely unaware that he was supposedly a father now.

He’d be home tomorrow. Tuesday evening, like he’d originally planned. And when he walked through that door, he’d expect to meet his newborn daughter.

Dorothy fed Kylee and tried to calm the panic rising in her chest. One more day. She had one more day to prepare.

After Kylee fell back asleep, Dorothy went to the bedroom closet and pulled out the bag she’d hidden in the back. The pregnancy padding. All the different sizes she’d accumulated over nine months—first trimester, second trimester, third trimester, full term.

She’d been wearing the full-term padding almost constantly since Friday. Even alone in her apartment, even while sleeping. Too afraid to take it off, too paranoid that someone might see her through a window or that a neighbor might knock unexpectedly.

But she couldn’t wear it anymore. Jake was coming home to a woman who’d just given birth. A woman whose body should look postpartum—still swollen, still recovering, but definitely not nine months pregnant.

Dorothy pulled off her shirt and unstrapped the padding for the last time. The elastic had left marks on her skin, red lines across her back and around her waist. She stared at her flat stomach in the mirror. This was what she actually looked like. What she’d looked like all along, underneath the silicone and lies.

She should look postpartum. Should have the soft, stretched stomach of someone who’d just delivered a baby. But her stomach was flat and firm, unchanged by a pregnancy that never happened.

Dorothy pulled her shirt back on and stuffed the padding into a garbage bag. All of it—every size, every piece that had helped her maintain the lie for nine months. She added the fake hospital bracelet she’d made but never used, the research she’d printed about faking pregnancy symptoms, anything that could connect her to the deception.

She’d have to get rid of it. Couldn’t just throw it in the apartment dumpster where someone might find it. She’d drive somewhere later, find a dumpster behind a*****e or restaurant, dispose of the evidence where it couldn’t be traced back to her.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Patricia: How are you feeling? Can we come visit today? Dying to meet our granddaughter!

Dorothy’s hands shook as she typed back: Still pretty tired and sore. Maybe in a few more days? I’ll let you know.

Of course, honey. Rest up. Send pictures when you can!

Pictures. Everyone wanted pictures. Lisa had asked yesterday. Her mother had texted this morning asking for photos. Even coworkers Dorothy barely knew were commenting on her f*******: post, asking to see the baby.

Dorothy looked at Kylee sleeping in the bassinet. She couldn’t send photos. Not yet. Not while the Amber Alert was still circulating with images of what Andrea was supposed to look like.

How long did Amber Alerts stay active? How long before people stopped looking, stopped sharing, stopped paying attention?

Dorothy opened her laptop and searched: how long do amber alerts last

The results were discouraging. Amber Alerts could stay active for days, weeks, even months depending on the case. And this case—a newborn stolen from a hospital—would stay in the news. Would keep people looking.

She closed the laptop and pressed her hands to her face.

There were so many details she hadn’t thought through. So many pieces that didn’t fit.

Like the birth certificate.

Dorothy’s stomach dropped as the realization hit her. Jake would expect there to be a birth certificate. Official documentation that Kylee Dorothy Bishop had been born Sunday morning at Mercy General.

But there was no birth certificate. Because Kylee hadn’t been born at Mercy General. Andrea Martinez had been born at St. Catherine’s, and her birth certificate would say that. Would list Maya as the mother and have a different name entirely.

Dorothy needed a birth certificate for Kylee. An official document that would make this baby legally hers.

But how? Birth certificates were issued by the hospital. Filed with the state. There was a whole system, a paper trail, records that couldn’t be faked.

Or could they?

Dorothy opened her laptop again and searched: how to get a birth certificate for home birth

The results showed forms, requirements, processes. For a home birth, you needed witnesses. Medical documentation. Affidavits. It wasn’t as simple as just claiming you’d had a baby.

What about delayed birth certificates? For children whose births weren’t registered immediately?

Those required even more documentation. Hospital records. Prenatal care records. Multiple forms of proof.

Dorothy clicked through page after page, growing more desperate. There had to be a way. People faked documents all the time. Identity thieves, illegal immigrants, people in witness protection.

But those people had resources. Connections. Money to pay for sophisticated forgeries.

Dorothy had none of that.

She looked at the search results until the words blurred together. Then she closed the laptop and went to check on Kylee.

Maybe she could delay it. Tell Jake the birth certificate was still being processed. That there was paperwork to file, that it would take a few weeks. Buy herself time to figure out a solution.

But eventually, Jake would want to see it. Would need it to add Kylee to his insurance, to claim her as a dependent, to do all the official things parents did.

Eventually, the lack of a birth certificate would be impossible to explain.

Dorothy picked up Kylee and held her close. The baby was warm and solid in her arms, real in a way the pregnancy never was.

“What am I going to do?” Dorothy whispered.

Kylee yawned and nestled against her shoulder, completely unaware of the impossibility of her situation.

Dorothy spent the rest of the morning researching. Birth certificates. Fake documents. Ways to register a baby without proper documentation. Every search led to dead ends or illegal solutions that required connections Dorothy didn’t have.

By afternoon, she was exhausted and no closer to an answer.

Her phone rang. Dorothy jumped, her heart racing, but it was just her mother.

She let it go to voicemail.

A minute later, a text: Called to congratulate you! Call me back when you can. Love you.

Dorothy set the phone down without responding.

She needed to focus. Needed to figure this out before Jake came home tomorrow.

The birth certificate was just one problem. There were others. The story of the delivery—she’d need details, specifics about what happened at Mercy General. Jake would ask questions. Would want to know about the labor, the doctors, what it was like.

Dorothy had worked in labor and delivery for six years. She could describe a birth in convincing detail. But Mercy General had different protocols than St. Catherine’s. Different layouts. Different staff.

What if Jake wanted to see where she’d delivered? Wanted to visit the hospital, thank the doctors, see the room where his daughter was born?

Dorothy’s breathing quickened. She couldn’t control all of this. Couldn’t manage every possible question, every detail that might not line up.

She was going to get caught. It was only a matter of time.

Unless—

Dorothy looked at Kylee, then at the garbage bag full of fake pregnancy padding.

Unless she ran. Took Kylee and disappeared before Jake came home. Before anyone could ask questions or demand documentation or notice the inconsistencies.

She could do it. Could pack a bag, drain her bank account, drive somewhere far away. Start over with a new name, a new story. Just her and Kylee.

But that was insane. That was worse than what she’d already done. That was kidnapping and fraud and running from the police and—

Dorothy’s phone buzzed. Another text from Patricia: Just checking in. Everything okay?

She stared at the message. At all the messages from people who cared about her, who were excited for her, who had no idea what she’d done.

She couldn’t run. Couldn’t just disappear and confirm everyone’s suspicions when they inevitably connected her to the missing baby.

She had to stay. Had to see this through. Had to find a way to make the birth certificate work and answer Jake’s questions and keep everyone believing the lie.

Dorothy set her phone down and went to the window. Outside, people were going about their normal Monday. Going to work, running errands, living their lives.

None of them knew that apartment 4B contained a stolen baby and a woman who’d spent nine months building an elaborate fiction that was now falling apart.

Dorothy touched her flat stomach through her shirt. After nine months of padding, it felt strange to be without it. Vulnerable. Exposed.

But she couldn’t put it back on. That part of the lie was over.

Now she just had to survive everything that came next.

Tomorrow. Jake would be home tomorrow.

And Dorothy had less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to explain the birth certificate, prepare her story, and make sure nothing—nothing—gave away the truth.