Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW MY MOTHER
“Everything?”
I repeated my mother's last word.
The call had ended, but it seemed to remain in the room.
Graham took my phone gently.
“Call her again.”
“I did.”
“No answer?”
“No.”
He handed the phone back.
Eleanor looked toward the hospital doors.
“We shouldn't stay here.”
I was done being moved around like a piece on someone else's chessboard.
“I want answers.”
“You're going to get them.”
“Now.”
Eleanor nodded.
“Then we start with your mother.”
We left through a private entrance.
Graham drove himself.
That alone told me how serious things were.
For the first twenty minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally I asked, “Did you know my mother?”
“No.”
“Did your father?”
“I don't know.”
“You've said that a lot today.”
“I know.”
His hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“I've spent twenty years knowing there were missing pieces in my family's history. I stopped looking because every time I did, someone got hurt.”
“And now?”
“Now you're pregnant.”
He glanced at me.
“With twins.”
I touched my stomach.
“Do you think that's connected?”
“I don't know.”
“You're afraid it is.”
“Yes.”
We arrived at my mother's apartment.
Her door was unlocked.
“Mom?”
No answer.
My heart jumped.
Graham entered first.
The apartment looked normal.
No broken furniture.
No overturned drawers.
No signs of a struggle.
Then I noticed the kitchen table.
My mother's old blue teacup sat beside an envelope.
My name was written across it.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother at twenty-nine.
Beside her stood a younger man.
Graham's father.
On the back:
HE CAME BECAUSE HE KNEW THE TRUTH.
Underneath was an address.
A women's clinic outside Chicago.
We drove there.
The building was old but well maintained.
A nurse led us into a small office.
An elderly woman sat beside the window.
She looked at Graham.
Then at me.
“You're Claire.”
“Yes.”
“I knew your mother.”
My throat tightened.
“Where is she?”
“She asked me to keep you away from this place.”
“Why?”
“Because twenty-nine years ago, several women came here after being told they would never have children.”
Graham sat beside me.
The woman continued.
“Some were told their reproductive systems were damaged. Some were told their husbands were infertile. Some were pushed toward expensive treatments.”
I felt sick.
“What does that have to do with my diagnosis?”
The woman looked at me.
“Your original diagnosis came from a specialist named Dr. Martin Vale.”
My breath caught.
That was the doctor who had told me three years earlier that natural pregnancy was extremely unlikely.
“Yes.”
“He worked with your mother.”
“What?”
“Not professionally. Personally.”
Graham leaned forward.
“What are you saying?”
The woman reached into a drawer.
She removed a small leather notebook.
“Your mother came to me after she discovered something.”
“What?”
“That several patient records had been altered.”
My skin prickled.
“Altered how?”
“Infertility diagnoses were sometimes made before complete testing.”
Graham looked at me.
“Claire…”
The woman raised a hand.
“I am not saying your diagnosis was false.”
That distinction mattered.
She continued.
“Your condition was real enough to require investigation. But your records were incomplete.”
My heart sank.
“So three years ago…”
“You may have been given a conclusion before every possibility was exhausted.”
I remembered that doctor's office.
The fluorescent lights.
The cold table.
The phrase terrible odds.
I had built an entire life around those words.
Then I remembered Daniel.
His mother's coffee cake.
His silence.
The breakup.
Graham reached for my hand.
I let him.
The woman opened the notebook.
“Your mother found evidence that someone was paying doctors to keep certain medical information private.”
“Who?”
She turned one page.
A name was circled.
Whitmore Medical Holdings.
Graham went completely still.
“That isn't my company.”
“No,” the woman said.
“It belonged to your father.”
Graham's face changed.
“My father owned a medical company?”
“Part of one.”
“And what happened to it?”
“It disappeared.”
The woman closed the notebook.
“Your father's death was not the only disappearance.”
“What else?”
She looked directly at me.
“Your mother's medical records.”
I felt cold.
“Where are they?”
“Unit 417.”
Again.
That number.
The same number from the brass key.
Graham stood.
“Then we're going.”
The woman caught his sleeve.
“Not yet.”
He turned.
“Why?”
“Because someone else has already been there.”
She handed him a photograph.
A storage facility.
Unit 417.
The lock had been cut.
A fresh tire mark crossed the concrete outside.
On the back, written in black ink:
THEY FOUND THE FILE FIRST.
I stared at it.
“Who are they?”
The woman looked at Graham.
“Your father's former partner.”
“Name?”
“Victor Hale.”
Graham's face hardened.
“I thought he was dead.”
“So did everyone.”
I felt a terrible sense of déjà vu.
Another dead man.
Another lie.
Another missing file.
Then my phone vibrated.
This time it was Daniel.
I hadn't spoken to him in almost four years.
His message contained only one sentence.
Claire, I know why you were told you couldn't have children.
May you like
Then another message arrived.
And Graham isn't the man you think he is.
