Chapter 7 - The Woman in the Old PhotographThe research clinic was empty when we arrived.
Lights on.
Doors unlocked.
No Emily.
No staff.
No doctor.
Nothing.
Except an old photograph hanging in the hallway.
I stopped.
It showed a group of doctors standing outside a hospital.
Among them was the physician who had treated Emily five weeks ago.
Next to him stood Mark.
And beside Mark was a woman I'd never seen.
Daniel stared at the photograph.
“That's impossible.”
“Who is she?”
He didn't answer.
I looked closer.
The woman held a newborn baby.
A baby wearing a hospital bracelet.
The photograph was dated fifteen years earlier.
I turned toward Daniel.
“Who is she?”
He finally spoke.
“Dr. Sarah Vance.”
“Why does she have my baby?”
Daniel looked at the floor.
“She wasn't your baby yet.”
I felt sick.
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer, footsteps echoed down the corridor.
We hid behind a door.
Two people walked past.
The first was Mark.
The second was Dr. Vance.
They were arguing.
“You promised me,” Mark said.
“I promised you money,” she replied.
“You promised Emily would be protected.”
“She was supposed to remain compliant.”
“She is a child.”
“She is fifteen.”
“She is sick.”
“She was sick because of the condition you agreed to.”
Mark's voice shook.
“I never agreed to make her sick.”
“You agreed to the protocol.”
“What protocol?”
I whispered.
Daniel grabbed my wrist.
“Stay.”
The doctor said:
“The genetic suppression therapy began when she was three.”
My blood froze.
“What?”
Mark sounded horrified.
“She was never supposed to know.”
Dr. Vance laughed bitterly.
“She doesn't.”
I looked at Daniel.
He was pale.
I couldn't breathe.
The conversation continued.
“Her symptoms are accelerating,” the doctor said.
“Can you treat them?”
“Yes.”
Mark exhaled.
“Then do it.”
“There is a problem.”
“What?”
“We need the original donor.”
Silence.
“Impossible.”
“We've located her.”
Mark whispered:
“Who?”
Dr. Vance said a name.
I couldn't hear it.
Then Daniel pulled me away.
“We have to go.”
“No.”
“Now.”
“No!”
I broke free and stepped into the corridor.
Mark looked at me.
His face changed.
“Rachel.”
Dr. Vance turned.
She stared at me.
Then she smiled.
Not with surprise.
With recognition.
“You look exactly like your mother.”
I froze.
“What?”
She walked toward me.
“I've been waiting a long time to meet you.”
I looked at Mark.
“What is she talking about?”
He didn't answer.
Dr. Vance reached into her coat and removed another photograph.
She handed it to me.
My hands shook as I looked.
The woman in the photograph had my eyes.
My face.
My smile.
But I had never seen her before.
At the bottom of the picture was a handwritten note:
Elena Whitman, 1989.
My mother's name.
Except my mother had died when I was nineteen.
I looked at Dr. Vance.
“My mother knew you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She was one of our first participants.”
I felt the room spin.
“My mother wasn't sick.”
Dr. Vance smiled.
“She wasn't.”
“Then what was she participating in?”
Dr. Vance looked at Mark.
Then back at me.
“Your daughter inherited something from her.”
“What?”
The doctor whispered:
“The genetic marker.”
I stared at the photograph.
Then at Mark.
He looked terrified.
I realized something terrible.
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This had not started fifteen years ago.
It had started before I was born.
