Chương 6
Her mother cried without speaking for a while.
Then she asked, “What do we do?”
Rachel looked through the glass wall of the conference room at two hospital attorneys moving quickly past.
For most of Rachel’s adult life, when her family asked what do we do, she answered.
She organized funerals, refinancing documents, airport pickups, Thanksgiving seating, emergency plumbers, second opinions.
Now there was nothing to organize that would make the next hour safe.
“I don’t know,” she said.
It was the first honest thing she had told her mother that morning.
Rachel returned home shortly after noon with a detective outside her building and three reporters waiting near the curb.
She kept her head down.
One shouted, “Mrs. Morgan, did St. Arden falsify your daughter’s death?”
Another called, “Do you believe your husband sold your baby?”
Rachel stopped.
The detective beside her said, “Keep moving.”
But Rachel turned.
The reporter who had shouted the question was young, probably twenty-five. Rain dotted his glasses.
Rachel looked straight at him.
“My daughter is a child,” she said. “Do not turn her into a headline before she understands her own life.”
The sidewalk went quiet.
Then she walked inside.
Her apartment still looked like the place she had left the previous afternoon.
Daniel’s loafers sat beneath the bench.
His coffee mug was in the dishwasher.
A jacket hung over the back of the dining chair because he never put clothes away when he expected to wear them again within twenty-four hours.
Rachel stood in the entryway holding the rabbit.
For some reason the jacket offended her most.
She picked it up and threw it into the hall closet.
The hanger fell.
She left it there.
Then she went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and stared at a container of cut melon.
Daniel had bought it.
Rachel took it out.
She ate three pieces standing over the sink.
Halfway through the fourth, she began crying.
Not loudly.
There was no collapse.
Her body simply started producing tears while she chewed melon.
She put the fork down and waited for it to stop.
It did not.
Her phone rang.
A Virginia number.
Rachel answered.
A woman introduced herself as Dana Ellis, a child welfare supervisor working with local authorities.
Rachel wrote the name on the back of an envelope because writing gave her hand something to do.
Dana spoke carefully.
Emma was physically safe.
She remained in the home.
Peter had voluntarily left to stay with a friend while investigators interviewed Claire.
A child specialist had been contacted.
No one had told Emma the full reason police were present.
Rachel listened.
Then asked, “Can I see her?”
“Not today.”
“Why?”
“Because she currently understands Claire as her mother.”
“She isn’t.”
“I understand.”
“No. You understand a sentence. I understand that my sister chose my daughter’s shampoo.”
Dana did not react.
Rachel regretted it immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“Please don’t say things like that to me.”
“All right.”
Rachel sat at the kitchen island.
“When?”
“We’re trying to arrange a meeting with professionals who can help plan disclosure and contact.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I can’t promise tomorrow.”
Rachel looked at Daniel’s coffee machine.
“What does Emma know about me?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Can you ask her?”
“We can ask Claire what she’s told her.”
“I don’t trust Claire.”
“I understand.”
Rachel almost corrected her again.
Instead she said, “Is Emma asking why police came?”
“Yes.”
“What did Claire tell her?”
“That there are questions about old family records.”
Rachel laughed bitterly.
“Claire always was good at reducing crimes to paperwork.”
Dana paused.
“Rachel, I need you to hear something you may not like.”
“I’m getting used to that.”
“Whatever was done to you, Emma’s attachment to Claire is real.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“I know.”
“Moving too fast could make her feel as though she’s losing her entire family.”
“I know.”
“We will need to separate accountability for the adults from emotional safety for the child.”
Rachel looked at the pink rabbit on the counter.
“I know.”
This time the words hurt.
That evening, Ryan came to the apartment with copies of several records.
He did not sit until Rachel offered.
He declined wine, accepted water, and placed a folder on the dining table.
“Daniel’s attorney contacted us about a proffer.”
“What does that mean in English?”
“He may be willing to provide information.”
“For what?”
“In exchange for consideration.”
Rachel leaned back.
“He wants a discount.”
Ryan did not smile.
“Essentially.”
“On stealing nine years?”
“The prosecutor will decide what matters.”
“What does Daniel say happened?”
“I can’t give you his protected statements.”
“Then why are you here?”
Ryan opened the folder.
“Because we identified the man who signed as witness on the guardianship form.”
Rachel looked down.
Dr. Samuel Voss.
She recognized the name.
“He was Sophie’s neonatologist.”
“Yes.”
“He told me she was dead.”
“We’ve located him.”
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
“Did he confess?”
“No.”
“Did he know?”
“He claims he believed you had agreed to a temporary guardianship while you recovered from complications.”
“Temporary.”
“Yes.”
“And the death?”
“He says Porter later told him the infant died after transfer.”
Rachel stared.
“So everyone had their own version.”
“That’s often how long lies survive.”
Rachel looked at him.
He continued.
“Voss says he signed a transfer form, not a death certificate. The death certificate bears an electronic authorization code assigned to him, but he denies submitting it.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Parts of his account match the records.”
“Which parts don’t?”
“He says he never met Claire.”
Rachel frowned.
“Did he?”
“A visitor log from the neonatal unit lists her twice.”
“Then he’s lying.”
“Or he doesn’t remember.”
“She took my baby.”
“Nine years ago, he treated hundreds of infants.”
Rachel stood and walked to the kitchen.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No.”
She poured water she did not want.
“Why did Claire have temporary guardianship?”
May you like
Ryan turned a page.
“Daniel told the hospital you had suffered a psychiatric crisis.”
