Chapter 7 - The Man Who Took the MilkGreg Mercer sat in the interview room with both hands clenched beneath the table.
At thirty-one, he had spent most of his adult life working irregular construction jobs and helping his mother manage her errands.
He wasn't wealthy.
His gray pickup needed repairs.
His work jacket was frayed at the cuffs.
But Hale noticed the expensive new phone resting beside his keys.
"Your mother says you stored the pantry deliveries," Hale began.
Greg nodded.
"That's right."
"Where?"
"My garage."
"Do you still have them?"
"Some."
"Which ones?"
Greg shifted.
"I don't know. Boxes."
"Did you open them?"
"Maybe."
"Did you use the formula?"
"No."
"Then why wasn't it delivered?"
Greg exhaled sharply.
"Ask my mother."
"I am asking you."
"I did what she told me."
Hale let the silence settle.
Greg looked away.
"She said Nora was too stubborn to accept help the right way."
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"Did you know there were two children in the cabin?"
"Of course."
"Did you know one was a newborn?"
Greg's jaw moved.
He said nothing.
Hale placed the pantry delivery photograph on the table.
"That's you collecting formula for a twelve-day-old baby."
Greg stared.
"Mom said Wren had enough."
"Did you verify that?"
"No."
"Did you ever go inside?"
Greg's silence lasted several seconds.
"Once."
"When?"
"Two days before the ambulance."
"What did you see?"
Greg swallowed.
"The little girl. The baby."
"What were they doing?"
"She was trying to mix a bottle."
"Did you ask whether they needed anything?"
Greg rubbed his palms against his jeans.
"She asked me for food."
Hale stopped writing.
"And?"
"I told her I'd check."
"Did you?"
Greg lowered his head.
"No."
The admission hung in the room.
Hale asked whether Greg would consent to an inspection of the garage.
Greg refused.
He ended the interview shortly afterward.
Investigators began pursuing the records and legal authority needed to continue.
They would not obtain evidence simply because the family was suspicious.
Meanwhile, Wren was having her own difficult day.
Her temporary foster caregiver, Mrs. Bell, had taken her to visit Milo during his final hospital observation.
The pediatrician said he was recovering well.
He had gained a little weight.
He was feeding consistently.
His medical team expected him to continue improving with proper care.
Wren smiled for the first time in days.
Then the doctor explained that Milo would need frequent checkups.
Wren's smile vanished.
"Did I hurt him?"
The physician crouched beside her chair.
"Wren, your brother was short on food. That can make babies sick. But you got help, and he's doing better."
She rubbed her eyes.
"What if I should've called sooner?"
The doctor answered carefully.
"Children shouldn't have to decide when a newborn needs medical help. That's why adults have to be there."
Wren nodded.
But guilt was stubborn.
That night, she refused dessert.
Mrs. Bell noticed.
"Don't you like apple pie?"
"I do."
"Then what's wrong?"
Wren stared at her plate.
"Milo can't have any."
"That's right. He's too little."
"It doesn't seem fair."
Mrs. Bell sat beside her.
"Would it help to know he has all the food he needs tonight?"
Wren nodded.
"Then maybe you can have something you need too."
Wren picked up her fork.
She took one bite.
Then another.
And slowly, without asking permission, she finished the pie.
Across town, Greg returned to his garage.
He raised the door just high enough to slip inside.
Three flattened pantry cartons were stacked beside a workbench.
A sealed package of newborn diapers sat behind an old generator.
Greg stared at them.
For days, he had tried convincing himself that the children had been safe.
That his mother had handled everything.
That taking the supplies had been an errand, not an act of cruelty.
But he could still hear Wren's voice from the porch.
Please. Milo needs the milk.
Greg reached for the diaper package.
Then he saw the papers beneath it.
A large white envelope.
His mother had left it there two weeks earlier.
Across the front was the letterhead of Calder Voss Development Group.
Inside were several printed emails, an invoice, and a payment schedule.
Greg skimmed the first page.
Then he froze.
One entry listed an upcoming payment.
Property access facilitation—$18,000 upon executed agreement.
Under the amount appeared his mother's name.
Lillian Mercer.
Greg turned the page.
A handwritten note was clipped to the documents.
No agreement, no second payment.
Greg felt nauseated.
He had believed his mother was trying to reclaim family property.
Now he understood that someone else was paying her to do it.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Lillian appeared.
Get rid of anything with the pantry's name on it.
Greg stared at the screen.
May you like
Then he looked back at the boxes.
For the first time, following his mother's instructions frightened him more than disobeying them.
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