Chapter 9 - PERFECT
The properly imaged laptop contained a private journal.
Not daily.
Scattered entries.
Some boring.
Work.
Mortgage.
Arguments.
Then pregnancy.
At twenty weeks:
Girl.
At twenty-four:
Jessamy wants Caius involved in naming. Fine.
At thirty-two:
Possible foot issue.
Then:
I cannot do another child built around appointments and sympathy.
Another child?
Caius was healthy.
No chronic illness.
What did Aloysius mean?
The therapist who later evaluated family history helped explain.
Aloysius experienced ordinary parenting needs as demands.
Caius had needed speech therapy for six months at age three after a mild articulation delay.
Nothing severe.
Resolved.
Aloysius hated it.
Not because treatment hurt Caius.
Because he felt judged whenever teachers or therapists made recommendations.
He once told me:
“Every professional acts like parents are employees.”
I had laughed.
Now his journal made it darker.
Caius therapy, preschool meetings, now braces/casts? We will never have normal kids.
Normal.
There.
Then:
I wanted one child who starts clean.
Our daughter had become a corrective fantasy.
A baby who would not need extra appointments.
Would not make him feel evaluated.
Would not invite questions.
Then after birth:
Foot confirmed.
Jessamy already talking specialists.
She has that look.
Everything becomes about fixing, accommodating, explaining.
Then:
Rachel Q baby healthy.
That line stopped me.
How did he know Rachel’s name?
Her family name appeared on the bassinet card in the observation area.
Then:
Same age window.
Same sex.
ID system weaker than they pretend.
Created 6:52 a.m.
Then:
Would Jessamy know if band moved before discharge?
There.
Not yet a direct plan.
Then a final note at 8:41:
I can’t bring her home like this.
My daughter.
Like this.
The sentence did not mean:
I cannot manage treatment.
It meant:
I reject the reality of her body.
Investigators found no note stating:
I will steal Rachel Quinn’s baby.
But preparation plus actions were enough to build a case.
Then another message to Victor? No new powerful character. Avoid.
Aloysius had texted only one close friend:
You ever feel like you got one wrong thing and suddenly the whole future changes?
Friend:
Dude it’s a foot. They fix it.
Aloysius:
You don’t get it.
Friend:
I think I do. You’re being weird.
Good.
No secret collaborator.
No one helped him.
He had a chance to hear reason.
He ignored it.
Then his work calendar.
He had canceled two meetings that morning.
Reason:
Family emergency.
Before the swap.
Premeditation.
Maybe.
Or newborn birth.
Defense would argue the latter.
Fair.
May you like
The central truth still required DNA.
Those results arrived the next morning.
