Chapter 15 - The First Death
I hit Reed before Ortiz could stop me.
One punch.
Across the interview table.
His lip split.
He looked almost relieved.
Ortiz dragged me backward.
“Outside.”
I pointed at Reed.
“My mother.”
He wiped blood from his mouth.
“Adrian.”
“My mother.”
He smiled.
That was worse than denial.
Ortiz shoved me into the hall and shut the interview-room door.
“You hit him again, every defense lawyer in Illinois gets a gift.”
“He was there.”
“I saw.”
“My mother died in a community hospital in Indiana. He was a resident in Chicago.”
“Then we verify.”
“Now.”
The federal analyst already had.
Reed completed an oncology rotation in Indiana the summer my mother died.
Same hospital.
Same floor.
My father’s kidnapping suddenly stopped feeling like leverage.
It felt like a door being opened.
We traced the image timestamp to a decommissioned county clinic two hours south.
State police surrounded it before we arrived.
My father was found alive in the basement.
Dehydrated. Bruised. Furious.
He grabbed my shirt when I reached him.
“Don’t trust the records.”
“What records?”
He looked at Ortiz.
“My wife’s.”
My mother’s chart had been rewritten after her death.
Not forged completely.
Adjusted.
One medication removed.
One physician note deleted.
One consulting resident never listed.
Reed.
Dad coughed until the medic made him drink water.
Then he said, “Your mother found out something about him.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She worked billing. Remember?”
I barely did.
I had been sixteen.
“She found children’s claims routed through adult oncology accounts.”
My mouth went dry.
Northbridge before Northbridge.
Phase One.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because she made me promise.”
“Why?”
Dad’s eyes filled.
“Because Reed came to our house.”
The room went quiet.
“He told her if she spoke, they would make it look like she stole hospital money.”
I thought of Mara.
Rachel.
Lucy.
Same method.
Same machine.
Dad gripped my wrist.
“She copied something before she got sick.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. She hid it where you would find it if you ever started asking.”
My chest tightened.
“Where?”
He looked at me like the answer should have been obvious for thirty years.
“Your first anatomy book.”
I still owned it.
Boxed in my basement.
We drove straight there with Ortiz and two agents.
The book sat exactly where I remembered.
Gray cover.
My name written inside at sixteen.
I opened it.
Nothing.
Ortiz flipped the spine.
A section had been hollowed out behind the back cover.
Inside lay a yellowed photograph and a small brass key.
The photograph showed my mother standing outside St. Catherine’s Hospital years before I ever worked there.
Beside her stood Rachel’s father.
And Malcolm Reed.
On the back, my mother had written one line:
THEY ARE MOVING CHILDREN THROUGH HOSPITALS. IF ADRIAN BECOMES A DOCTOR, KEEP HIM AWAY FROM REED.
My hand shook.
Ortiz picked up the brass key.
A number was stamped into it.
214.
The federal analyst called before we could move.
“We found what 214 belongs to.”
“What?”
“A safe-deposit box.”
“Where?”
“Chicago Federal Trust.”
“Who owns it?”
A pause.
Then the analyst said:
“Not your mother.”
I gripped the phone.
“Who?”
“Rachel Shaw.”
Ortiz and I looked at each other.
The analyst continued.
“And, Adrian—somebody accessed it yesterday.”
My front-door alarm chirped.
Not from the basement panel.
From upstairs.
One entry sensor opened.
Then another.
Footsteps crossed my kitchen.
Lucy’s voice came from the top of the stairs.
“Dr. Shaw?”
I turned so fast I hit the shelf.
She stood there beside Mara.
Pale.
Holding a white envelope.
“I found this in my coat.”
My name was written across the front in Rachel’s handwriting.
Underneath it were four words:
DON’T OPEN BOX 214.
May you like
Then somebody knocked once on my front door.
And the lights went out.
