Chapter Thirty-Seven
LOGAN
One month later...
Things haven’t been easy since then.
The girls were deeply shaken, and it took time for their smiles to return with the same spontaneous joy. We always reminded them their mother wanted them to be happy, and that became their strongest motivation to heal.
Now they were doing well, but Evelyn and I faced a new parenting milestone: leaving them with a babysitter for the first time.
The New York Center Hospital held its annual spring gala to mark the new fiscal year and recent hires. As the new director, my attendance was mandatory.
And of course, the invitation included my partner.
We hired a reputable agency, trusting they would send a qualified professional.
“What if you tell them I have a stomach bug?” Evy suggested.
We were both dressed and ready—me in a tuxedo, her in a stunning golden gown—lingering in the hallway, staring at the girls sleeping peacefully in their beds.
“No one would blame you for staying home if I was supposedly sprinting to the bathroom every five minutes,” she pressed.
“They’ll be fine, Evy,” I repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.
“You could just go alone…” she tried again. “Then we wouldn’t need a sitter at all.”
“And leave a catch like me alone at a party?” I teased.
She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “Are we back to the arrogant phase, Dr. Turner?”
“I’m appealing to your jealous side.”
“Right now, my jealous side is no match for my overprotective side.”
“Just the other day you said you missed going to parties.”
“I meant afternoon parties. With a bouncy castle and a kids’ area. Make a note for next year’s hospital gala.”
“Duly noted. But this year, I’m afraid I inherited the event. I understand if you want to stay, Evy. Truly. But at some point, we have to trust someone. They start daycare soon, and you’ll be launching your school.”
“I know. You’re right. Sorry, I’m being paranoid.”
“You’re not. Believe me, I’m nervous, too. But it’s under control. You saw the nanny’s profile. Five years of experience, stellar reviews. This is the top agency in the city.”
“I know, I know. But can we really trust that? They said one of her qualities is punctuality, and she’s already ten minutes late. What else did they get wrong?”
“Evy…”
“What?”
“Now you’re being paranoid.”
A small smile finally broke through her worry. “Yeah. I know. Sorry.”
“Don’t ever apologize for being a dedicated mother.”
I kissed her, and at that moment, the doorbell rang.
We headed downstairs. Evelyn waited in the living room while I answered the door. A young woman with red hair stood on the step.
“So sorry I’m late, Mr. and Mrs. Turner. Traffic was a nightmare.”
I had a fleeting, private thrill at hearing Evelyn called “Mrs. Turner,” even if it was a little premature.
“It’s no problem,” Evelyn said warmly, as if she hadn’t just been counting the minutes. She slipped on her coat and launched into the instructions. “The girls are asleep. If they wake up: Aurora is deaf. She won’t hear you, but she’s an excellent lip-reader. Just face her when you speak.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sitter replied.
Evelyn continued, “Anna is a champion negotiator. She might wake up claiming she’s starving, but it’s just a ploy for cookies.
They had a full dinner. Our numbers are on the fridge.
If your phone dies, use the landline. I also wrote down their grandmother’s number in L.A. , and their aunt and uncle’s…”
“Sweetheart…” I interjected, wondering what cataclysm would require a call to relatives across the country. “We should go, or we’ll be late.”
“Oh! And if they have a fever: Anna is allergic to most children’s fever reducers. The only one she can take is on the kitchen counter, but call me before you give her anything, and—”
“Evy, they’re asleep. Anna does not have a fever.”
The sitter offered an understanding smile. This clearly wasn’t her first time with anxious parents.
“I promise I’ll call you immediately if anything comes up, Mrs. Turner,” she said kindly.
Evelyn looked like she had more to say, so I gently guided her out the door. We got into the car for the short drive to the venue.
But as I drove, a knot of unease tightened in my own stomach. I knew they were with a professional, but… I couldn’t shake a bad feeling.
Then again, I was probably just being paranoid, too.
*****
The party was the same monotony as always—a whirl of handshakes, photo ops, and making the rounds in countless conversation circles.
The one—the only—advantage this gala had over every other work function I’d ever attended was my date. I was immensely proud to introduce Evelyn to everyone, though the term "girlfriend" felt like a profound understatement.
Our relationship had unfolded so naturally we’d never bothered with formal labels. It was only in settings like this that I realized how inadequate the word was for what we truly were.
The same was true for Evelyn’s relationship with the girls.
Per our lawyer Janet’s advice, we’d issued a press release explaining Evelyn wasn't their biological mother but was a mother to them in every way that mattered as my partner. We’d framed the initial secrecy as protecting Eleanor’s privacy during her illness.
A half-truth, artfully spun. So now, Evelyn was introduced as their stepmother, a term that felt far too small for the bond they shared.
After over an hour of socializing, Evelyn finally pulled me onto the dance floor. No sooner had we stepped into the light than the music softened into a slow song.
“Fair warning, I might step on your feet,” I murmured near her ear.
“You seem perfectly coordinated to me,” she replied, her smile luminous.
“I’m sorry for dragging you to such a boring party.”
“It’s not boring. It’s… elegant. Luxurious.”
“And boring.”
“Nothing is boring when I’m with you, Logan.”
“You make everything better just by being here,” I said, pulling her a little closer. “Though I’ll admit, I can’t wait to get you out of that dress later.”
She laughed, and we swayed together for a few precious moments. Then she suddenly stopped, reaching for her clutch.
“My phone is vibrating. What if it’s the sitter? What if something’s wrong with the girls?”
“Sweetheart, I’m sure they’re—”
“Logan.” Her voice was a sharp, terrified whisper. She stood frozen, staring at her screen, her hands beginning to tremble.
“Evy, what is it?”
When she couldn’t speak, I looked at my own phone. The same image glared back at me.
It was a photo of the girls, fast asleep in their beds. It wasn’t from the sitter.
Beneath the photo was a single line of text:
Sorry to ruin your party. It's time to come home.
Alone. Don't bring the police.
- Peter