Chapter 12 - The Friday DeadlineBy Thursday morning, Mama's house was a crime scene.
The police found traces of gasoline.
Arson.
Intentional.
But there were no fingerprints.
No camera footage.
Nothing.
Exactly what you'd expect from someone who had spent decades making people disappear.
Samuel took us to his office.
He locked every door.
Then he said something I never expected.
“I think Arthur Voss wants you alive.”
“Why?”
“Because you possess something.”
“The settlement?”
“No.”
“The ledger?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Samuel looked at the old flour tin.
“That.”
I frowned.
“The tin?”
“Your mother didn't choose it because it was convenient.”
He took it apart piece by piece.
Under the false bottom was another compartment.
Inside was a tiny brass key.
And a strip of paper.
Room 714.
“Hotel?” Russell asked.
Samuel shook his head.
“No.”
“Hospital?”
“Yes.”
Emily looked at him.
“Which hospital?”
Samuel named it.
My heart stopped.
The hospital where I had given birth.
The same hospital where I had been treated after the accident.
The same place that had supposedly lost my daughter's records.
We arrived that afternoon.
Room 714 had been sealed for years.
But the lock still opened with the brass key.
Inside was an empty room.
Dust covered the windows.
The bed was gone.
The cabinets were empty.
Then Emily noticed a loose tile.
She pulled it up.
Underneath was a metal box.
Inside:
medical records.
Photographs.
Audio tapes.
A handwritten diary.
Mama's diary.
I read the first page.
March 4, 1996.
I know what Wayne is doing.
Next page.
April 16. Daniel knows too.
Then:
May 2. Michael is dead.
I stopped.
My father's death.
There was no obituary in the file.
No police report.
Just three words.
Wayne arranged it.
I turned the page.
June 11. Linda's accident was planned.
My hands shook.
Then:
June 14. My baby survived.
I almost dropped the diary.
Emily grabbed my arm.
“Keep reading.”
The next entry was longer.
Mama had written:
Wayne thinks the child is dead. He believes he has buried every secret. He is wrong.
Then:
There are two girls. One is Linda. One is Emily. The wrong baby was moved.
My heart pounded.
“What wrong baby?”
Samuel took the diary.
He read silently.
Then his face changed.
“What?”
He handed it back.
A sentence was underlined.
Emily is not the child Wayne meant to sell.
I looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
She looked equally terrified.
Mama had written another sentence.
The child Wayne wanted was Linda.
Silence.
“Why me?” I whispered.
Samuel turned the page.
A photograph fell out.
It showed Wayne holding a newborn.
Behind him stood Arthur Voss.
And between them was a typed document.
GENETIC TEST RESULTS.
The baby had a rare genetic marker.
I looked at Emily.
She shook her head.
“Why would someone pay hundreds of thousands for a baby?”
Samuel stared at the report.
Then he said:
“Because she wasn't just a baby.”
“What was she?”
May you like
He looked at me.
“A bloodline.”
