Chapter 5 - A Sister Who Had Been Running
I slept in my study with the transport receipt on the desk. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Lena walking through our bedroom the morning labor began, her hair piled on top of her head, her hand resting against her stomach. “Three girls,” she had said, smiling. “We're going to need a bigger breakfast table.”
At dawn, Detective Brooks called. She had verified that a company named Meridian Medical Transit existed five years earlier but had dissolved following complaints about its recordkeeping. St. Agnes had also changed ownership. Its old records were held by a state-appointed custodian.
“Can we go there?” I asked.
“We're seeking the records through proper channels,” she said. “Please don't interfere.”
A man who owned seven hotels should have known how to wait for paperwork. A father who'd just learned that two children might have been stolen from him couldn't.
I didn't drive to St. Agnes. I drove to the church where Lena and I had married. I sat in the back pew, staring at a window she had once called ugly because the angel had a crooked nose. Then I called Rachel and asked her to tell me the truth about our case, without softening it.
“The receipt may have been forged,” she said. “Your wife may have been transported before she died. A passenger name can be entered incorrectly. We need authenticated records, credible witnesses, and genetic evidence.”
“What about the girls?”
“That's a different question. Their existence already gives investigators reason to revisit the delivery.”
Her honesty steadied me. Hope was dangerous when it had no foundation.
That afternoon a judge authorized temporary emergency protective placement for Vera and Violet while Dana assessed safe relatives and the ongoing investigation. I submitted to background checks, home inspection, and every other requirement. Valerie was delighted by the prospect of sharing her toys. I was terrified she'd be hurt if the placement fell through.
Eunice arrived at my house before dinner, wearing pearls and carrying a box of pastries.
“You should have told me,” she said.
I motioned for Mrs. Alvarez to take Valerie upstairs.
“Told you what?”
“That Marnie has resurfaced. She's using children to get money from you.”
“How did you know they were girls?”
Eunice set down the pastries. “Brett, don't make this unpleasant.”
“Answer me.”
Her lips tightened. “Because I know what my daughter went through. Because I watched your obsession with heirs nearly destroy her.”
I felt the familiar sting of guilt. In the months before the birth, Lena and I had argued about accepting investment money from a foundation managed by Eunice. But I had never demanded heirs. Lena wanted our children with a fierce, joyful certainty that still humbled me.
“You told me three people died,” I said quietly. “My wife. My daughters. Why didn't you let me see them?”
Eunice's expression hardened. “There are things you don't understand.”
“Then explain them.”
“Sometimes the kindest decision is the one nobody forgives.”
She headed for the door. I didn't stop her. The security camera recorded the entire visit, and I sent the footage to Brooks.
Later that night, Vera surprised me by asking to speak on the phone. Dana supervised the call.
“Mr. Calder?” she said.
“You can call me Brett.”
“Aunt Marnie said there was a song. A song our mom sang before we were born.”
My throat tightened. “What song?”
“She couldn't remember all of it. Something about three little stars.”
Lena had made up that song during our drives home from prenatal appointments. No one outside our house had ever heard the entire thing except Marnie, who used to laugh at the rhymes.
I sang the first verse. Vera went silent. Then I heard a small intake of breath.
“That's it,” she whispered.
“I'm going to find your aunt,” I told her. “The police are helping.”
“Please don't be mad at her.”
“Why would I be?”
“Because she cried whenever she said your name.”
After the call I stood at the kitchen window for a long time, watching the city lights. Marnie had known me as a young man with no money and too much ambition. She'd stood beside Lena at our wedding and danced with me when Lena's feet hurt. Whatever had happened, it hadn't begun as simple cruelty.
At 11:46 p.m., Rachel sent a photograph extracted from a legally obtained archived employment directory. A woman had worked at St. Agnes under the name Leah Cross. The picture was grainy. Her hair was shorter. There was a thin scar near her eyebrow.
But the face was Lena's.
The timestamp on the employee badge was dated eighteen months after I buried her.
I sat down on the floor with the phone shaking in my hand.
A photograph was not certainty. I knew that.
May you like
Still, for the first time since the hospital, I said my wife's name as though she might be alive to hear it.
“Lena?”
