My triplets refused to blow out their birthday candles until I set a fourth place at the table.

Claire stood three feet away from me. Her designer handbag was clutched against her chest like a shield. Without her sunglasses, her face was gaunt, her skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, her eyes wild with a feral, cornered terror.

"Give that back to me," Claire whispered, her voice trembling with venom.

I held my purse tight against my side. "No."

"I know who you are," Claire hissed, stepping closer, glancing nervously toward the children by the juice cart. "Dr. Vance warned Victor years ago that you might come looking. You're the mother from St. Jude’s."

Hearing her say the words aloud—confirming without a shadow of a doubt that she knew June had been stolen—shattered the last shred of my restraint.

"You took my baby," I whispered, stepping toward her until our faces were inches apart. "You bought my daughter like a piece of furniture because your body couldn't carry your own."

Claire flinched as if I had struck her across the face. Her pale skin flushed crimson. "She is *my* daughter! I raised her! I held her through the croup! I taught her to read! She doesn't even know your name!"

"Because you lied to her!" I hissed, tears of pure rage burning my eyes. "Just like you lied to the world! But it's over, Claire. I have her hair. I have her DNA. By Monday morning, federal marshals will be serving a warrant on your husband."

Claire let out a short, hysterical laugh that sounded like cracking glass.

"You think Victor will let you walk away with that?" she whispered, her eyes wide and unhinged. "You think you can take a billionaire’s child because of a hair in a plastic bag? Victor will destroy your family, Rachel. He will buy the company your husband works for just to fire him. He will have your home foreclosed. He will crush you until you have nothing left."

"Mommy?"

A small, sweet voice cut through the tension.

Maya was walking back toward us, holding a paper cup of apple juice. She looked between Claire and me, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"Mommy, who is this lady?"

Claire instantly smoothed her expression, forcing a rigid, terrifying smile onto her lips. "Nobody, darling. Just someone asking for directions. Finish your juice. We’re leaving right now."

Claire grabbed Maya’s wrist, pulling the little girl toward the exit with frantic speed. Maya stumbled slightly, looking over her shoulder at me.

Our eyes met again.

I didn't shout. I didn't reach out. I pressed my hand against my heart, where the specimen bag rested inside my coat, and mouthed three words:

*I love you.*

Maya’s eyes widened with quiet wonder before the heavy wooden doors of the library slammed shut behind them.

I ran out the side entrance toward Adam's truck parked around the block. I threw myself into the passenger seat, locked the door, and held up the clear plastic bag.

"We got it," I gasped, my chest heaving. "Adam, we got the roots."

Adam didn't smile. He looked at the rearview mirror, his face dead pale.

"Rachel," he said quietly, pointing toward the side mirror.

Parked fifty yards behind us on the quiet residential street was a sleek black sedan with tinted windows. As Adam pulled away from the curb, the sedan clicked on its headlights and smoothly pulled out behind us.