That’s how I ended up here, eight months pregnant and handcuffed to a hospital bed. An officer named Mills sat in a chair by the door, his hand resting casually on the holstered weapon at his hip. He looked at me with a tired, cynical contempt, as if I were a particularly tedious piece of paperwork.

He slammed a folder down on the bedside table. “We know everything,” he said, his voice flat. He flipped it open. “James Patrick Murphy. Six years old, lives in Michigan. Your sister-in-law has provided extensive documentation of your… obsession with this child.”