Chapter 3 - The Doctor Who Knew Too MuchThe doctor's name was Daniel Reed.
Fifty-two.
Oncologist.
Married.
Two children.
According to hospital records, he had died that afternoon after his car crashed on a mountain road.
Single vehicle accident.
No witnesses.
No apparent mechanical failure.
The police called it an accident.
I didn't.
I had seen too many accidents.
This one had the wrong timing.
The wrong victim.
The wrong connection.
And, most importantly, the wrong missing laboratory report.
I went back to St. Vincent.
Claire refused to come inside.
I didn't blame her.
The hospital suddenly felt different.
Every hallway seemed narrower.
Every face seemed suspicious.
I approached the oncology floor and asked for Sophie.
A different nurse was at the station.
“She can't receive visitors.”
“Why?”
“Doctor's orders.”
“Which doctor?”
She hesitated.
“Dr. Mercer.”
“Where is Dr. Mercer?”
“Unavailable.”
That answer was enough.
Something was wrong.
I stepped away and called an old Army contact who still worked federal investigations.
“James, I need a favor.”
“You owe me three.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“I'll explain later. I need information on a civilian doctor.”
An hour later, I received a message.
Dr. Daniel Reed had been investigated six years earlier.
Not prosecuted.
The file was sealed.
I called James.
“Why sealed?”
“That's what I'm trying to find out.”
“Try harder.”
He laughed.
“I missed that tone.”
I hung up.
Ten minutes later, another message arrived.
A single document.
I opened it.
My heartbeat stopped.
The investigation had nothing to do with cancer.
It involved experimental genetic research.
Human tissue.
Unapproved trials.
And something called Project Helix.
I read the name twice.
Project Helix.
I had never heard of it.
But the next page included a list of participants.
Most names were blacked out.
One wasn't.
Sophie Parker.
My wife.
No.
That couldn't be right.
I checked the date.
Seven months before our first miscarriage.
I stared at the document until the letters blurred.
Why would my wife be involved in a classified medical program?
I called Claire.
She answered immediately.
“You found something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Project Helix.”
Silence.
“You know what it is.”
“I know enough to tell you to stop.”
“Was Sophie part of it?”
Claire didn't answer.
“Claire.”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“She didn't volunteer.”
“What does that mean?”
“She was recruited.”
“By whom?”
“I don't know.”
“Why?”
“I told you to stop asking.”
I slammed my hand against the steering wheel.
“She's dying!”
“I know!”
Claire's voice cracked.
“And she has spent the last year trying to keep you alive.”
The words silenced me.
“What did you say?”
Claire breathed shakily.
“You think she left because she stopped loving you?”
“I divorced her.”
“You abandoned her.”
“I know.”
“No, Ethan. You don't.”
I closed my eyes.
“What happened?”
“She discovered something about the babies.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Claire whispered:
“The miscarriages weren't natural.”
Everything went silent.
“What?”
“The doctors told her the pregnancies failed because of bad luck.”
Claire took a breath.
“That wasn't true.”
I gripped the phone.
“Then what happened?”
“She found evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Someone had altered her medical records.”
My stomach twisted.
“Who?”
“That was what she was trying to find out.”
“And the cancer?”
“We don't know.”
“You said she was trying to protect me.”
Claire hesitated.
Then said:
“The night before your divorce hearing, someone broke into her apartment.”
My skin prickled.
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“They weren't looking for something.”
“What were they looking for?”
Claire's voice became barely audible.
“They were checking whether she had already told you.”
I stared through the windshield.
“Did she?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she thought you'd be safer if you hated her.”
That sentence broke something inside me.
I whispered:
“Safer from whom?”
Claire didn't answer.
Instead, I heard another voice.
A male voice.
Right beside her.
“Claire.”
She gasped.
The line went dead.
I stood.
My instincts screamed.
I drove to her apartment.
The door was open.
Inside, drawers had been pulled out.
A lamp was broken.
Claire's phone was on the floor.
But Claire was gone.
I called her name.
Nothing.
Then I saw something on the wall.
Written in black marker.
ONE PARKER ALREADY FAILED.
I moved closer.
Below it was another sentence.
DON'T MAKE IT TWO.
My blood ran cold.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
No one spoke.
Then a distorted male voice whispered:
“You should have listened to your wife.”
The line disconnected.
I stood in Claire's wrecked apartment.
And suddenly, for the first time, I understood Sophie's last sentence at the hospital.
The cancer wasn't the worst thing they found.
The worst thing was me.
May you like
Because someone out there was making sure I stopped digging.
And whoever they were, they already knew my name.
