For three days, I lay in that bed under guard, waiting for my body to fail or the law to bury me. My ex-husband, who hadn’t paid child support in a decade, was suddenly very interested. He confirmed he was the father, which made me look even guiltier.
“She must have used a surrogate and lied to me,” he told the investigators, trying to absolve himself of the years of neglect. “Or maybe she stole my girlfriend’s eggs.” The theories were getting wilder, and the public defender looked hopeless.
Then, my lawyer found a needle in a haystack. She burst into my room, breathless, holding a printout of a medical journal. “Have you ever heard of Lydia Fairchild?” she asked.
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