I bumped into my ex-wife in the hospital hallway right after my wife gave birth. “Congratulations,” she said — then suddenly turned pale when she saw my wife resting in the room. Without another word, she bolted as if she’d seen something impossible. Seconds later, my phone buzzed with a message from her: “Go to the police. Right now. That woman isn’t…”

I sat beside the hospital bed, my hand wrapped around fingers that felt too cold for someone who had just brought life into the world. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, sterile and indifferent to the miracle that had occurred two hours ago. My son, my beautiful, perfect son, slept in the bassinet beside us, his tiny chest rising and falling with the quiet certainty of new life. Melissa Matthews—no, Melissa Ewing now—smiled at me from the bed, but something in her expression seemed wrong. Too practiced, too perfect, like she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror.