The girl didn’t move. Just stood there, hands jammed into her pockets, as if bracing for more than the weather.
“Are you a lawyer?” Her voice was thin, wary. Like someone who’d practiced asking questions but gotten too many wrong answers.
Birdy gave a nod. “I am.”
“I just have a question. It's for a class project.”
The girl was a terrible liar, but Birdy would play along. “Shoot.”
“It’s about... if someone leaves a baby. Like, leaves them somewhere safe. But the authorities now have the kid. Can they... can they go back and get the baby?”
Birdy’s lawyer brain clicked on. Safe Haven laws. Timelines. Custody statutes. But her gut was doing something else entirely. Turning. Tightening.
“Depends,” Birdy said carefully. “There are rules. Deadlines. A lot depends on how it was done.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, thanks. For the answer. For my project.”
“Would you like to take my card? In case you have any more questions for your project?”
The business card was matte black with clean, minimalist lines—no glossy finish, no unnecessary embellishments. Her name was embossed in elegant silver script across the top—professional but not fussy. In the bottom right corner, a subtle watermark of a phoenix rising—her personal touch. A quiet nod to the kind of law she practiced. Rebuilding lives from ashes.
The girl looked at the card. Then reached for it. Birdy saw the old bruises on her wrists. They could've been self-inflicted. Or they could be signs of abuse.
Her eyes lifted, meeting Birdy's. There was a confession there. Birdy waited patiently for the words to come out.
“I left my baby,” the girl said in a rush, like if she said it fast enough, it wouldn’t stick to her. “But I want her back now.”
Birdy exhaled slowly, watching the way the girl’s arms crossed tighter. “The baby’s father, is he involved?”
The girl didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Her silence was louder than anything.
“Did he hurt you?”
Still nothing. Just the tightening of her shoulders. The flicker in her eyes.
“I thought he loved me,” the girl whispered. “I thought... we were going to raise our baby together.”
This was why Birdy didn't believe in fairy tales. Love was just a story people tell themselves. A bedtime tale for adults who should know better.
“Come inside. You’re not going to get very far in this snowstorm, anyway.”
The girl’s head lifted slightly, unsure. She hesitated for half a second longer before stepping inside, out of the cold. Once they were inside, Birdy locked the door behind them and turned the lights back on.
CHAPTERFOUR
Connection Lost. Chat Session Ended.
The hum of the backup generator kicked on with a growl. That was followed by the softflick-flick-flickof the overhead lights struggling to reassert themselves. Paul blinked and then shielded his eyes as the dim office came back to life in fluorescent hues, like someone had lit a hundred electric candles around the room.
With everything else coming back online, maybe he could get her back, too. He tapped the keyboard. The computer took a while to reboot. He tapped again, but it didn't go any faster. Finally, the glow of the monitor flickered back to life like a pulse returning. Reconnecting…
Session Expired Due to Inactivity.
Paul stared at the screen,willing it to undo itself. As if maybe if he just refreshed one more time, she’d still be there—waiting, typing, needing him. He opened the browser history, tried to retrace his steps the way he had with her form.
Nothing.
The state’s system wasn’t built for sentiment, just record-keeping. The chat was anonymous by design. Discreet. Secure. Impersonal.
