Seeing The Trafficker In My Bed Chapter 2

The next morning, Jerry was standing at my door. Behind him stood Detective Sullivan.

The detective held a thin manila folder, chatting amiably with Jerry about some local sports game. When Sullivan saw me awake, he nodded toward the bassinet and then handed me the file.

"Here’s what you asked for." He patted Jerry on the shoulder. "You’ve got a good one here, Jerry. Don't let her go."

My heart hammered against my ribs as I tore the folder open.

Criminal record: Clean. Credit score: Excellent. Employment history: Stellar. Every interview Sullivan had conducted over the phone that morning yielded the same result: Jerry was a pillar of the community.

He looked perfect. He was a ghost.

Jerry moved toward the bassinet to pick up our son, but I let out a sharp, guttural sound. "Get out! I don't want you near him!"

Sullivan’s eyebrows shot up. Jerry held up his hands, his expression pained but patient. "It’s okay, Detective. She’s had a long night. I’ve got some stuff to take care of at the office anyway. I’ll be back later, Ruby."

The moment he left, I turned to Sullivan. I told him everything. I told him about the labels, the scammer, the bank robber. I didn't hold back, terrified that my son was in danger.

Sullivan frowned, leaning against the hospital wall. He made a few more calls, digging into Jerry’s extended family, his college days, even his high school records.

Nothing.

Sullivan sighed. He wanted to believe me—I’d given him two major collars in a week—but he had to face the facts.

"Ruby, I’m telling you, the guy is a saint on paper. I talked to him for twenty minutes out there. He’s not a criminal. He doesn't have the temperament for it."

"But the label changed," I insisted.

"Is it possible... you’re just tired? Maybe you misread it?"

Every other person in the hospital had a label that made sense. "Nurse." "Anxious Father." "Tired Resident." Only Jerry’s was a nightmare.

My stomach cramped—a sudden, violent surge of pain that sent me tumbling from the bed to the floor. Blood began to seep through my gown.

Sullivan panicked, shouting for a nurse. Jerry came sprinting back into the room. He knelt beside me, his hands trembling as he stabilized my shoulders.

"It’s okay, it’s okay. The doctor’s coming. I’m right here, Ruby. Don't be scared."

I caught a whiff of his scent—the cedarwood soap I’d bought him for Christmas—and for a split second, I felt safe. I felt home. Maybe the tag was wrong. Maybe I was losing my mind.

The doctor arrived quickly. It was a minor complication, but she gave Jerry a stern look.

"She’s in a fragile state, both physically and emotionally. Postpartum health isn't just about the body; it's about the mind. You need to be extra attentive right now."

Jerry exhaled a shaky breath and took my hand, squeezing it tight. "Sullivan told me. I know you’re suspicious of me for some reason."

"But Ruby," he whispered, his eyes moist, "have you considered that this might be postpartum psychosis? The stress... the hallucinations? It happens."

Sullivan, standing in the doorway, nodded slowly.

I clenched my fists, my throat too dry to speak. All the evidence pointed to Jerry being a hero. But a voice in the back of my mind—the one that had saved me from the scammer and the robber—kept screaming.

Watch him.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a new tag in the hallway.