Chapter 7 - The Night the Hospital Records Burned
Nathaniel spent the next hour staring at the photograph.
I watched him struggle with the possibility that everything he believed about Goldie's birth might be wrong.
"Clara was there," he whispered.
"That doesn't mean she's Goldie's mother."
"Then why would someone write this?"
I examined the photograph again.
"The child belongs to both of them."
The wording was strange.
Not daughter.
Not baby.
Child.
I looked at Nathaniel.
"What if they're talking about something other than parenthood?"
He frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Medical research. Genetic material. Donors."
He shook his head.
"Goldie is Evelyn's daughter."
"How do you know?"
"Because Evelyn told me."
"Did you see her give birth?"
He looked away.
"No."
"Where was she born?"
"St. Catherine's."
I remembered Dr. Bennett.
"The hospital where the Bellwether Foundation conducted research?"
Nathaniel nodded.
"Then we need the birth records."
We went to St. Catherine's that afternoon.
The hospital had changed ownership twice since 2017.
Most of its older paper records had been digitized.
But the archive department informed us that a fire had destroyed several storage rooms in 2018.
Including maternity records.
Including Goldie's.
Nathaniel slammed his hand against the counter.
The clerk recoiled.
He immediately apologized.
"I'm sorry. I just need to know who delivered my daughter."
The clerk looked sympathetic.
"I wish I could help."
Then she lowered her voice.
"Actually, there might be someone."
She wrote a name on a slip of paper.
Helen Whitcomb.
"She was a maternity nurse here for thirty years."
"Where is she now?" I asked.
"Retired. Lives outside Fairhaven."
We drove there immediately.
Helen Whitcomb lived in a small blue house surrounded by rosebushes.
She was seventy-three, with silver hair and sharp green eyes.
When Nathaniel introduced himself, her expression changed.
"Mercer?"
He nodded.
She looked toward his truck.
"Where's the little girl?"
Nathaniel stepped closer.
"You remember her?"
Helen's hands began trembling.
"I remember everything."
She invited us inside.
For several minutes, she said nothing.
Then she walked to a cabinet and removed a sealed envelope.
"I've been waiting for someone to ask."
Inside were photocopies of medical records.
Birth certificates.
Genetic reports.
Photographs.
Helen spread them across the table.
"Your sister arrived at the hospital in October 2017," she said. "She was heavily pregnant."
Nathaniel exhaled.
"So Goldie is hers."
Helen nodded.
"Yes."
Relief crossed his face.
Then she continued.
"But the doctors weren't interested in the pregnancy."
I frowned.
"What were they interested in?"
"Evelyn's blood."
Helen pointed toward a laboratory report.
"She carried an extremely rare genetic variation affecting a protein involved in neurological repair."
I leaned forward.
"Was it dangerous?"
"Not necessarily. But the foundation believed it could be commercially valuable."
"How?"
"They hoped to develop treatments from it."
Nathaniel looked disgusted.
"They used my sister as a laboratory experiment."
Helen nodded sadly.
"And they planned to use her daughter."
Silence filled the room.
I looked at the records.
"Why the hair?"
Helen hesitated.
"Hair samples were part of their testing. They were collecting evidence of exposure to experimental medications and tracking changes over time."
"So the hair wasn't magical."
"No."
She looked at Nathaniel.
"But they made Evelyn believe it was."
He stared at her.
"What?"
"They convinced her that cutting her hair before seventeen would make her sick."
My heart sank.
"Why would they do that?"
"Control."
Helen's voice hardened.
"They wanted her frightened enough to obey."
Nathaniel covered his face.
For seventeen years, he had carried a promise built on a lie.
But Helen wasn't finished.
"There's something else."
She removed another document.
A transfer authorization.
Signed by Dr. Adrian Voss.
Dated October 20, 2017.
Three days after Goldie's birth.
"Voss ordered the baby moved to a private research facility," Helen said.
Nathaniel's face turned white.
"What happened?"
"Your sister refused."
"Then?"
Helen swallowed.
"She escaped with the baby."
Nathaniel shook his head.
"She brought Goldie to me."
"Yes."
"And three weeks later, she disappeared."
Helen nodded.
"Because someone betrayed her."
"Who?"
Helen looked directly at him.
"The person who signed the release allowing the foundation to locate her."
Nathaniel stared.
"I never signed anything."
Helen slid a document across the table.
At the bottom was a signature.
Nathaniel Mercer.
His name.
His handwriting.
His signature.
But the date was wrong.
It had been signed while he was hospitalized after a construction accident.
He looked at the paper.
Then whispered, "Someone forged this."
Helen nodded.
"I believe you."
"Who?"
She hesitated.
Before she could answer, the front window shattered.
Glass exploded across the room.
Nathaniel threw himself over Helen.
I dropped behind the couch.
A second crash followed.
Then a bottle rolled across the floor.
Flames spread along the curtains.
Someone had thrown a firebomb through the window.
Nathaniel grabbed a blanket and smothered the flames while I called 911.
Through the smoke, I saw a figure standing across the street.
A woman.
Gray coat.
White hair.
She watched the burning house.
May you like
Then raised three fingers.
And vanished into the darkness.
