Walter returned home from work, and the piercing cries of his infant son greeted him, echoing through the house. His wife, Abby, sat in the kitchen, her face etched with exhaustion and frustration.“I’ve tried everything!” Abby broke into sobs. “I fed him, changed him, burped him, bathed him—nothing works! I even checked his temperature. I don’t know what else to do.”
Becoming parents just a month ago had turned their lives upside down, and Logan’s relentless cries often left Walter feeling helpless.“Let’s figure it out together,” he reassured her, guiding her to Logan’s room.
When Walter approached the crib, his cheerful demeanor vanished. Instead of Logan, there was a dictaphone emitting the recorded cries of their son, and beside it lay a note. He pressed the stop button, silencing the cries, and froze as he read the chilling message:
“I warned you that you’d regret being rude to me. If you want to see your baby again, leave $200,000 in the storage lockers near the pier. If you go to the police, you’ll never see him again.”
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In 1993, a deaf baby was left on my doorstep. I took on the role of his mother, but I had no idea what the future would hold for him.