David quickly opened the lid. Inside was a stack of yellowed papers, the ink faded. One of the pages read: «Birth case code March 7, 2015. Laura Summers, twin birth. Baby A transferred to NICU. Baby B reported stillborn. No legal confirmation. Attending physician, Dr. Mark Fletcher.»
David gripped the page tightly. «This is it. Official evidence.»
Charles added, «We’ll file a motion for the provincial court to formally reinstate this document and reopen this St. Mary’s Hospital case.»
Marissa turned to David. «We can confirm Mila was Baby A. But what you need now is to find out what happened to her over the last eight years.»
Back in Fresno, California, David sat at his desk, eyes glued to logs from the child welfare database. An old friend from Interpol U.S., Luke Monroe, had sent him a batch of data on children named Mila born on March 7, 2015.
Finally, David saw it. «Mila Smith, reported to have lived with three different families over the past eight years.»
He called Luke immediately. «Luke, are you sure? Three families?»
«I’m sure. First, she was placed through a non-governmental organization in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Returned after eight months due to emotional disturbance. Two years later, adopted by an American couple, returned again because of behavioral issues. The third family, in Jacksonville, Florida, was found using her for illegal labor.»
David clenched his teeth. «She’s a child. A little girl,» he slammed his hand against the table.
Luke sighed. «She might have mild neurological trauma from neglect. Possibly physical abuse too. But all full records were erased after each transfer.»
Marissa entered, holding a fresh printout. «David. I found the names of two women who previously listed themselves as Mila’s adoptive mothers. One of them still lives in El Paso, Texas. Her name is Megan Bennett.»
«Let’s go,» David said, standing up, eyes bloodshot. «I want to hear it from them.»
In El Paso, Texas, Megan’s home was in a rundown working-class neighborhood. She was in her 40s, with damaged, bleach-blonde hair. She opened the door with a cold stare as David showed his badge.
«I’ve got nothing to say. The girl left my house three years ago.»
«You adopted Mila Smith. Her real name is Mila Myers. She’s my biological daughter,» David said, his voice steely.
Megan shrugged. «So what? I had her for a few months. She was difficult—screamed at night, muttered stuff about white rooms and ‘don’t let them inject me.’ I got scared and sent her back.»
Marissa stepped forward. «Did you hit her?»
«No. I had no reason to.»
«Then who left those scars on her wrists?» David shouted.
Megan backed away, eyes darting. «I don’t know. Maybe the house before mine. I only took her because there was financial support.»
«Support from who?»
«Some middleman. Name was Alex. I never got a real surname.»
David wrote it down. «Do you have any photos of Mila from back then?»
Megan pulled out an old photo album, flipping to a few pictures. Mila appeared in ragged clothes, standing beside stacks of cardboard boxes, her eyes hollow.
Marissa looked at the photo and clenched her fists. «I don’t know how you live with yourself.»
Megan slammed the door behind them without another word.
On the drive back, David was silent. Marissa looked at him and spoke softly. «We’ll bring everything to light. But Mila—she needs more than justice. She needs healing.»
David nodded, eyes fixed on the glowing highway. «I know. But first, Mark must face justice.»
Back home, Mila was drawing when David returned. She looked up. «Dad, did you find anything?»
David sat beside her, brushing her hair gently. «I found a lot. The places you lived. The people who treated you badly.»
Mila lowered her head. «Sometimes I thought maybe I didn’t deserve parents.»
David pulled her into his arms. «No, sweetheart. You’ve always deserved love. And now you have me, your mom, and your sister Grace. Forever.»
Mila leaned into his chest and whispered, «I don’t want to go back to the white room. Ever again.»
«No one’s taking you anywhere,» he whispered. «I swear.»
In a minimalist office in Washington, D.C., the glow of a computer screen lit up David’s tense face. He was on a video call with Abigail Carter, arepresentative from the international organization Children’s Justice Alliance, which supports child trafficking cases.
«You just said Mark Fletcher.» Abigail frowned, scribbling notes.
«Yes. Former OBGYN, previously accused of multiple administrative violations in the U.S. But what happened to my daughter goes way beyond violations.»
Abigail exhaled slowly. «David, we have matching records. A string of disappearances in the U.S., Colombia, and Argentina. At least 16 infants were adopted illegally through a private charity. Mark’s name appears on early medical coordination receipts.»
David clenched his fists, barely containing his rage. «Where is he now?»
«According to the last Intel report, he’s using a fake identity—Samuel Miller. He’s running an orthopedic clinic in suburban Seattle, Washington. Keeps a low profile, private security, no public appearances.»
Marissa, sitting beside David, jumped in. «Do we have enough evidence for an international arrest warrant?»
Abigail nodded. «We’ll work with Interpol. But David, you should know, it won’t be easy. He appears to be protected by powerful financial interests.»
«Financial interests?» David narrowed his eyes. «You mean?»
«Large sums have been moved through offshore accounts under shell companies linked to charitable medical organizations. They’ve turned baby trafficking into an industry.»
Marissa slammed her hand on the table. «We’re talking about children. Human beings.»
Abigail didn’t flinch, only said quietly. «I know. But money beats the law unless there’s a major expose.»
That night, David drove back to Fresno, California, his head spinning. He no longer felt tired—just a searing fury consuming him hour by hour.
Laura was sitting in the living room, watching the news with Grace and Mila. The three of them were wrapped in a blanket, like a family just beginning to reconnect after years of broken pieces.
«David?» Laura called softly.
«Any news?» He sat down, his voice low. «Mark didn’t just take our daughter. He took others. In multiple countries. He disappeared from the U.S. because he planned all of it.»
Mila trembled. «He’s… still alive.»
David held her. «Yes. But not for long.»
Laura looked at him, searching his face. «What are you going to do?»
«Go to the U.S. Coordinate with Interpol. But I want to be the one to arrest him.»
Grace suddenly spoke. «I want to go with you.»
Laura turned quickly. «No, Grace. You stay with me and your sister. Your dad needs to focus.»
Mila took Grace’s hand and whispered. «I’m scared. If he disappears again, more kids like me will suffer.»
David paused. He knelt and looked Mila straight in the eyes. «No. From now on, I won’t let anyone disappear again.»
The next morning, at Interpol’s office in Washington, D.C., David reunited with an old acquaintance, Logan Thomas, U.S. liaison officer. Logan shook his hand firmly.
«I read the file. Unbelievable. Mila’s one of the few surviving victims. Do you have a plan?»
Logan unfolded a map, pointing to a Seattle suburb. «The clinic operated by Samuel Miller, Mark’s alias, is here. Local police can’t raid it without a valid warrant. We’re rushing the request.»
Marissa stepped in. «We can provide Mila’s testimony, the nurse’s affidavit, and documents from child guard. That’s enough to support human trafficking charges.»
Logan nodded. «If everything goes smoothly, we’ll have the warrant in 48 hours. But David, if you go, you can’t interfere.»
David gripped his bag strap. «I just want to see him in cuffs.»
Later that afternoon, as David was preparing to leave, George Morris, the retired medical investigator, showed up with a thick file. «I found this in the old archives. Internal investigation of Mark from 2016.»
«And?» David asked.
«Case was shut down midway. No reason given. The suspension was signed by Henry Carter, former deputy secretary of health.»
David was stunned. «So, someone high up protected him.»
«Exactly. Could have been money or silence. But this time, no one’s staying comfortable anymore.»
On the night train to Seattle, Washington, David sat in silence, staring at two photographs: one of Grace smiling brightly at her school festival, and the other of Mila, her eyes still shadowed with gloom, even in the arms of those who loved her.
Marissa, seated beside him, spoke softly. «You know, if you hadn’t stopped that van that day, Mila might have disappeared forever.»