Her name was Linda.
She had introduced herself the morning after Emily was born — soft voice, clipboard, the kind of careful eyes that had seen too many hard situations to be surprised by any of them.
She said she was there to help with discharge paperwork and any resources I might need.
I had thanked her and not thought much of it.
Then I mentioned Derek's name.
Not in any dramatic way.
Just in passing, filling out a form.
*Father's name: Derek Calloway.*
Linda's pen stopped moving.
She looked up at me.
"Derek Calloway," she said.
"From Columbus."
"Yes." I watched her face.
"Do you know him?"
She set the clipboard down on the edge of the bed.
Very carefully.
The way you set something down when you need both hands free to think.
"I can't share details about other patients or cases," she said.
"But I want to make sure you have everything you need before you leave this hospital."
She reached into the folder she was carrying and pulled out an envelope.
"There are resources in here.
Legal contacts.
A family advocate.
A number for a family law attorney in Allegheny County who does free initial consultations." She placed it in my hands.
"I'd encourage you to make that call before you make any decisions about going back."
I stared at the envelope.
"Linda." My voice came out quieter than I intended.
"What aren't you telling me?"
She held my gaze for a long moment.
"I'm telling you to make that call," she said.
"That's what I'm telling you."
Then she picked up her clipboard and walked out.
Rachel had been standing near the window the whole time.
She waited until the door clicked shut.
"Megan."
"I heard her."
"What does that mean?
Does she know Derek?"
"I don't know." I turned the envelope over in my hands.
"But she stopped writing the second I said his name."
Rachel crossed the room and sat beside me on the bed.
"Open it."
Inside were exactly what Linda had described — a printed resource sheet, a list of contacts, and a business card for a family law attorney named Patricia Hale.
Handwritten on the back of the card, in small careful letters, were four words.
*Call before he does.*
Rachel read it over my shoulder.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
"She knows something," Rachel said.
"Yes."
"Something about Derek specifically."
"Yes."
Rachel stood up.
She walked to the window, then turned back around.
"Megan, think.
Derek works in commercial real estate.
He's based in Columbus.
Why would a social worker at a small hospital near the Pennsylvania state line go still at the sound of his name?"
I didn't have an answer.
But I picked up my phone and dialed Patricia Hale's number.
It rang twice.
"Patricia Hale's office."
"My name is Megan Calloway," I said.
"A hospital social worker gave me this number.
She said to call before my husband does."
A pause.
Brief.
Professional.
"Mrs.
Calloway." The voice on the other end shifted — not warmer, exactly, but more focused.
"We've been expecting someone might call.
Can you tell me which hospital you're at?"
My hand tightened around the phone.
*Expecting someone might call.*
Not *expecting your call.*
*Someone.*
"Why?" I said.
"How many people has she referred to you?"
Another pause.
"Mrs.
Calloway, I think it would be better if we spoke in person.
Are you able to come to my office tomorrow morning?"
I looked at Emily asleep in the bassinet beside the bed.
Two days old.
Dark hair.
Perfect fingers.
"I have a newborn," I said.
"Bring her," Patricia said.
"Bring your sister too, if she's with you.
You'll want someone there."
The call ended.
Rachel was watching me from across the room.
"Well?" she said.
I set the phone down on the blanket.
"She said they'd been expecting someone to call." I looked up at Rachel.
"Not me specifically.
*Someone.*"
Rachel's face changed.
"What has he done, Megan?"
I shook my head slowly.
Outside the window, the afternoon light was fading.
Emily stirred in the bassinet, made a small sound, and settled again.
Whatever Derek had done — or was doing — Patricia Hale already knew enough to be waiting.
And by tomorrow morning, so would I.