The day my mother-in-law died, my husband didn’t cry. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone, pointed the camera at my face, and said, “Isabel, repeat after me: you gave her the broth.”

Richard turned slowly, his hand still resting on the lock. The smug, calculated mask he had worn for years was gone, replaced by a raw, feral desperation. Next to him, Chloe was hyperventilating, her eyes darting between my phone and the heavy oak door.

“Give me the phone, Isabel,” Richard said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed a terrifying, low vibration that made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Give it to me, and we can talk about this. We’re a family.”

“Family?” I spat, taking a step back toward the hallway that led to my children’s bedrooms. “You killed the woman who raised you. You tried to frame the mother of your children for murder. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“You don’t understand what’s at stake here!” Chloe shrieked, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her leather purse. “You think you’re so smart with your little baggies and your neighbor’s camera? You’re playing a game you don’t understand, Isabel! If that audio gets out, we don’t just lose the money. We lose everything.”

“What did you inject her with, Chloe?” I demanded, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “The purple needle cap. That wasn’t insulin. What was it?”

Chloe opened her mouth to speak, but Richard slapped his hand against the wall, silencing her instantly. He took a heavy step forward. “It doesn’t matter what it was. What matters is what happens right now. You’re going to delete that file. You’re going to hand over that folder. And you’re going to sign the statement.”

“And if I don’t?”

Richard didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket. My breath caught in my throat. I expected a weapon—a knife, a gun—but instead, he pulled out a second set of keys. Keys I recognized instantly. They belonged to the deadbolts on Ethan and Lily’s bedroom doors, locks we had installed years ago for privacy that he had apparently copied.

“Ethan! Lily!” I screamed, turning toward the hallway.

“They aren’t here, Isabel,” Richard said with a sickeningly calm smile. “Did you really think I’d leave them here while we settled this? Chloe’s boyfriend took them out for ice cream an hour ago. They think it’s a treat to get them away from the ‘sadness’ of the apartment.”

The room spun. The walls of the old building seemed to close in on me. My children. He had taken my children. The text message from the unknown number flashed in my mind: If Richard finds out that you know, your children are in grave danger.

“They’re fine,” Chloe stammered, though her pale face suggested otherwise. “As long as you cooperate, Isabel. Just give him the folder.”

I had to play for time. I had to think. My mind raced back to the text message, to the audio file that had cut off right at the most devastating revelation: He is not my son… but he wasn’t the only baby switched that night.