A tiny blue hand was the first thing I saw when I lifted the dumpster lid behind the Valente estate.

Interrogation Room B was smaller than the visiting hall, smelling of stale coffee and burnt carpet.

Sitting at the metal table was a woman I had never seen before. She wore a tailored charcoal pantsuit, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, and a silver shield clipped to her lapel: Detective Maria Santos, Chicago PD Homicide Division.

An open manila file sat before her, its pages covered in crime scene photographs and forensic medical logs.

I sat down opposite her, the metal cuffs clinking against the table.

"I know you’ve already given a statement to the precinct, Ms. Vance," Detective Santos began, her voice low, raspy, and devoid of the usual police hostility.

"Then why am I sitting here?" I asked, looking straight into her sharp, intelligent brown eyes. "My bail was denied, my lawyer can't get an audience with the judge, and your colleagues have already tried me in the press."

Santos didn't answer immediately. She slid a glossy photograph across the metal table.

It showed the Valente service alley from above—the exact spot where I had pulled Emma from the dumpster.

"Because Karen Mitchell’s story doesn't make sense," Santos said quietly.

My heart started pounding against my ribs. "What do you mean?"

"Karen claims she looked out her window at eleven-fifteen PM and watched you carry the baby toward the dumpster and toss her inside," Santos explained, tapping her pen against the photo. "She claims she immediately ran downstairs to sound the alarm."

"That is a complete fabrication!" I shouted, leaning forward. "I was coming from the dumpster when I found her!"

"I know," Santos said, her eyes narrowing. "Because the forensic timeline from the medical examiner’s office proves Emma was placed in that freezing bin at least forty-5 minutes before Karen claims you arrived at the estate. Furthermore, the pediatric report states Emma survived the initial hypothermic shock specifically because someone immediately transferred core body heat to her skin."

She leaned across the table, her gaze locking onto mine with surgical precision.

"So if you were trying to kill that baby, Isabella... why were you the exact person trying to save her?"

I stared at the detective, a wild, fragile spark of hope igniting in my chest. "Because I didn't put her there! Karen is the nanny! Check her room! Check her phone records!"

Santos didn't blink. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a second photograph, sliding it slowly across the metal surface toward my hands.

"I did check her phone records," Santos whispered.

"And when I looked at who Karen was calling forty minutes before the baby was found..."

I looked down at the photograph.

It was a still frame from a toll-booth security camera on the interstate, showing the driver of a black sedan registered to an offshore holding company.

The face in the passenger seat was partially shadowed, but the profile—the dark hair, the sharp jawline, the expensive Italian wool lapel—was unmistakable.

My blood ran cold.