Chương 5
He had been very particular about coffee for a man who routinely drank gas-station coffee on road trips. He would make a face, drink it anyway, then spend ten minutes explaining what was wrong with it.
Emily could almost hear him.
Burnt.
That’s not coffee. That’s a warning.
She closed her eyes.
The memory hurt differently now.
Not because he was gone.
Because a woman outside the door had told her the child in her arms might not be his.
Emily opened her eyes.
“Rachel.”
The nurse looked up from the computer.
“Can they test him?”
“For what?”
“DNA.”
Rachel became still.
“Yes.”
“How fast?”
“That depends on the test and the lab.”
“Can it be done today?”
“A sample can.”
“I want it.”
Rachel moved away from the computer.
“Emily, I think before you decide—”
“I already decided.”
“You delivered eleven hours ago. You’ve had almost no sleep.”
“Would sleep change his DNA?”
“No.”
“Then get the test.”
“The hospital will probably want legal involved.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone is asserting a parentage claim, chain of custody matters.”
Emily almost laughed.
“Now chain of custody matters.”
Rachel took that without defending herself.
“I’ll call the attending.”
Emily looked down at her son.
She did not want the test.
The realization surprised her.
She wanted certainty, but not the road toward it.
As long as no one swabbed his cheek, Margaret Hale was a stranger with a cream blazer and a terrifying story.
A test made the story a question science might answer.
Her son yawned.
Emily traced the shape of his eyebrow.
Aaron had thick dark eyebrows.
The baby's were barely there.
She hated herself for noticing.
At nine sixteen, Emily’s mother called.
Emily had ignored four previous calls.
On the fifth, she answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Why is there security at maternity?”
Emily closed her eyes.
Of course.
Her mother had been planning to come at ten and had apparently called the front desk.
“It’s a long story.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Is the baby okay?”
Emily’s grip tightened.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I need you not to come yet.”
Silence.
“Emily.”
“Please.”
“Did someone threaten you?”
“Yes.”
Her mother inhaled sharply.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“Is this about Aaron?”
Emily looked at the baby.
“Maybe.”
Her mother was quiet again.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you need me?”
The question nearly broke her.
Emily pressed her lips together.
“Yes.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I need you. I do not need you here yet.”
Her mother understood that distinction only after a long pause.
“All right.”
“Please don’t call anyone.”
“Your father already knows security wouldn't let us up.”
“Don’t tell Aaron’s parents.”
“Emily—”
“Mom.”
“All right.”
“And don’t post anything.”
“I don’t post.”
“You posted my ultrasound.”
“That was different.”
“Mom.”
“All right.”
Emily ended the call.
Rachel was pretending not to listen.
“My mother posts,” Emily said.
Rachel looked at her.
“I gathered.”
It was such an ordinary sentence that Emily laughed.
The laugh hurt her abdomen.
She held her side.
Rachel’s eyes creased above her mask.
Then both women remembered where they were.
The moment disappeared.
At ten, a hospital administrator named Victor Sand came into the room with Officer Ortiz and a woman from the hospital’s privacy office.
Victor was in his early sixties and had the tired expression of someone who had already been awake for a very bad morning.
He did not begin with reassurance.
That helped.
“We identified the employee credentials used at 3:12,” he said.
Emily waited.
“A patient-access supervisor named Janet Vale.”
“Where is she?”
“Not on site.”
“Why?”
“She was scheduled overnight. She left at approximately five thirty.”
“After changing my son’s record?”
Victor nodded.
“Did she quit?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did she answer her phone?”
“No.”
Officer Ortiz said, “We’re trying to locate her.”
Emily looked at the privacy officer.
“What did she change?”
The woman opened a folder.
“The newborn’s maternal association was temporarily altered.”
“To what?”
“A restricted external case profile.”
“What does that mean in English?”
The woman glanced at Victor.
Emily saw it.
“Don’t look at him. Look at me.”
The privacy officer did.
“It means your baby’s electronic record was briefly detached from the standard mother-baby link and associated with a confidential administrative file.”
“Whose file?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Margaret Hale’s?”
“We have not confirmed that.”
“But you have a name.”
“We have an internal case number.”
“Who created the case?”
“Janet Vale’s credentials.”
Emily looked at Rachel.
The nurse’s eyes were fixed on the folder.
“What would that change allow?” Emily asked.
The privacy officer hesitated.
“It could interfere with routine matching screens.”
“Could it let someone remove him?”
“Not by itself.”
“By itself.”
Emily repeated the phrase.
Victor leaned forward.
“The physical security bands would still alarm at the unit exits.”
“So someone would need to change those too.”
“Yes.”
“Could Janet Vale do that?”
“No.”
“Could Rachel?”
Rachel looked at her.
Victor said, “Clinical staff can replace bands under controlled procedures.”
Emily felt sick.
“How many people?”
“Emily,” Victor said, “there is no evidence anyone attempted to change the physical bands.”
“There was a man at my door.”
“We know.”
“And this.”
She held up the release form.
Victor's expression changed.
He had not seen it yet.
Emily noticed.
“Rachel said you could trace where it printed.”
“We can.”
“Do it.”
Victor nodded toward the privacy officer.
She photographed the page without touching it.
Five minutes later, she stepped into the hall to make a call.
Emily watched the door close.
“Who is Margaret Hale?” she asked.
Victor exhaled.
“We are still establishing that.”
“She knew the exact time.”
“Yes.”
“She knew the record was changed.”
“Yes.”
“Someone here told her.”
“It appears so.”
“And the man?”
Officer Ortiz answered.
“We have video of him entering through the emergency department lobby at 5:52.”
“Did he sign in?”
“No.”
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“How did he get to maternity?”
“He followed a facilities employee through a controlled door before it latched.”
