The monitor beside Rachel's bed began beeping faster.
I watched the numbers climb.
“Elaine had your phone?”
Rachel nodded.
“While I was in surgery.”
“After the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“You said you called me.”
“I did. Before they admitted me.”
“And I called you.”
“I never received anything.”
I opened my call history even though two weeks had passed and the evidence proved nothing by itself.
“Rachel, I called until your voicemail filled.”
“I believe you.”
“Then Elaine blocked me.”
“I don't know.”
“You know she could have.”
Rachel pressed her lips together.
“Yes.”
I stood.
The chair legs scraped across the floor.
“What else did she do?”
“Danny.”
“What else?”
A nurse entered and checked the monitor.
“You need to keep her calm.”
I looked at Rachel.
“She has spent three years lying to me because she thought she was protecting me. Her sister may have spent the last two weeks making sure neither of us could change that decision. Calm is going to have to wait.”
“Daniel.”
Rachel's voice was weak but firm.
I looked at her.
“I asked Elaine to keep you away originally.”
“Originally?”
Her eyes closed.
The nurse adjusted the intravenous line.
I waited.
When Rachel opened her eyes again, she said, “After the wedding, I changed my mind.”
I sat down slowly.
“What?”
“I couldn't do it anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend I didn't need you.”
She swallowed.
“The doctor called during the night. The latest scan was worse. He wanted me admitted immediately. I left before you woke because I was terrified.”
“And then?”
“I sat outside your house.”
“For how long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
I pictured her alone in the car before sunrise while I slept upstairs.
“I kept looking at the door,” she said. “I thought maybe you would wake up and see the ring was gone from my hand.”
“You expected me to chase you.”
“I hoped you would.”
“Rachel, I'm not psychic.”
“I know.”
“Why didn't you come back inside?”
“Because every time I reached for the door handle, I remembered why I left you in the first place.”
Her eyes filled.
“I drove away. Halfway to Austin, I changed my mind.”
“You called.”
“Yes.”
“My phone never rang.”
“I tried again that afternoon.”
“Nothing.”
“When I woke after surgery, Elaine had my phone.”
The shape of the problem was becoming visible.
“And the message?”
Rachel shook her head.
“I never wrote it.”
I looked toward the door.
“Where is Elaine now?”
“I don't know.”
“Does she know I'm here?”
Fear moved across Rachel's face.
Not irritation.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
I leaned closer.
“Why are you afraid of your sister?”
Rachel's fingers tightened around the sheet.
“I'm not.”
“That's another lie.”
“Danny.”
“What did you mean in the letter?”
She looked confused.
“The thing doctors found during your first surgery. You said it reopened something from our past.”
Rachel became still.
The change was immediate.
I knew then that the cancer was not the only secret she had been protecting.
“Tell me.”
She looked toward the nurse.
“Not now.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't know where Elaine is.”
I stared at her.
“What does Elaine have to do with something doctors found inside your body?”
Rachel's breathing quickened.
The nurse stepped closer.
“Daniel, I need you to back off.”
I ignored her.
“Rachel.”
Her hand reached for mine.
“There are things you don't know about Elaine.”
“Then tell me.”
“She blamed you.”
“For what?”
Rachel looked at me for several seconds.
“For what happened to the baby.”
Every sound in the room seemed to move farther away.
“What baby?”
Rachel's face changed.
She had not meant to say it.
I pulled my hand from hers.
“We never had a baby.”
Her mouth opened.
My phone rang.
The sudden sound made all three of us jump.
I looked at the screen.
RACHEL WHITMORE.
For a moment my mind refused to process what I was seeing.
Rachel lay three feet away from me.
Her phone was supposedly somewhere with Elaine.
Yet her name glowed on my screen.
Rachel saw it.
“Don't answer.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“Danny, please.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Then breathing.
A woman's breathing.
“Elaine?”
A voice came through the speaker.
“You should have stayed away.”
Rachel covered her mouth.
“Where are you?”
“That doesn't matter.”
“You sent the message.”
Silence.
“You blocked my calls.”
Elaine laughed softly.
“You and Rachel have always been very good at blaming everyone except yourselves.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask her.”
“Ask her what?”
“Why she really left you.”
“I know about the cancer.”
Another silence.
When Elaine spoke again, her voice had changed.
“So she finally told you.”
“She didn't. The hospital did.”
“You should go home, Daniel.”
“No.”
“You don't understand what you're walking into.”
“Then explain it.”
Rachel shook her head at me.
I ignored her.
Elaine said, “Rachel has been lying to you much longer than three years.”
“About what?”
“Ask her why there was never a funeral.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What funeral?”
Rachel began crying.
“Elaine, don't.”
The woman on the line heard her.
“So you're awake.”
“Leave him alone.”
“I tried.”
“Elaine.”
“I tried for twenty-six years.”
My skin went cold.
“What happened twenty-six years ago?”
Nobody answered.
“Elaine.”
Her voice came quietly.
“The funeral for your daughter.”
I stopped breathing.
Then the line disconnected.
I stared at Rachel.
She looked exhausted, frightened, and suddenly much older than she had two weeks ago.
“We never had a daughter.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered.
I stood so quickly the chair toppled.
“What did you say?”
The monitor alarm began.
The nurse moved toward Rachel.
“Daniel, step outside.”
I didn't move.
Rachel opened her eyes.
“Yes, Danny.”
Her voice broke.
“We did.”
The monitor screamed.
Several nurses rushed through the door.
Someone pushed me backward.
“Sir, out.”
“Rachel!”
Her body jerked beneath the blanket.
Grace appeared in the doorway.
“What happened?”
“I don't know.”
The medical team surrounded the bed.
I found myself in the hallway with Grace gripping my arm.
“What did she tell you?”
I looked at her.
“You knew.”
Grace's face went blank.
“You knew about the child.”
She released me.
“I think Rachel should—”
“No.”
The word came out louder than I intended.
People at the nurses' station looked toward us.
“No more of that. No more waiting for Rachel. No more waiting for Elaine. Someone tells me what happened.”
Grace glanced toward the room.
“I can't tell you everything.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't know everything.”
“But you know something.”
She sat in one of the plastic chairs.
After a moment, I sat opposite her.
“Rachel came here four years ago for surgery,” Grace said. “During imaging, doctors noticed old surgical scarring.”
“What kind?”
“Consistent with a complicated delivery.”
My hands went numb.
“She told me she had never carried a pregnancy.”
“I know.”
“How?”
Grace looked at me.
“Because I asked her.”
I stared.
“Why would a nurse ask a patient about something twenty-six years old?”
Grace did not answer.
A terrible thought surfaced.
“How long have you known Rachel?”
“Four years.”
“You said you've worked here almost three.”
“I knew her before I worked here.”
“How?”
Grace folded her hands tightly.
“She found me.”
The hallway suddenly felt too narrow.
“Found you where?”
“Through a genetic registry.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who are you?”
Grace looked toward Rachel's room.
Then she looked directly at me.
“My adoptive parents were Thomas and Linda Bennett.”
I said nothing.
“I always knew I was adopted,” she continued. “They never hid that. After my mother died, I submitted my DNA because I wanted medical history.”
My heart began beating painfully.
“Four years ago, I got a match.”
“With Rachel.”
Grace nodded.
“How close?”
Her eyes filled.
“Parent and child.”
I stood.
The movement was instinctive.
Grace stood too.
“No.”
“I know.”
“No.”
“Daniel—”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
I stared at her face.
Until that moment, I had seen only a nurse.
Now I saw details.
Rachel's eyes.
The slight bend in her nose.
The way she pressed her lips together when she was frightened.
My knees weakened.
I sat again.
“Does Rachel believe you're her daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“I've seen the DNA.”
I covered my face.
For several seconds I could not speak.
When I finally lowered my hands, Grace was crying silently.
“Am I your father?”
“We don't know.”
That answer hurt differently.
“Rachel never tested you.”
“Why?”
“She said you didn't know I existed.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“She was afraid.”
“Everyone keeps being afraid on my behalf.”
Grace wiped her cheek.
“She thought bringing you into this would destroy whatever life you had built.”
“She divorced me because of cancer. She hid a daughter because she thought the truth would upset me. Is there anything in my life people haven't decided for me?”
Grace looked down.
“I called you.”
The anger left me for a moment.
“Yes.”
“I wasn't supposed to.”
“Why did you?”
“Because I was tired of watching her say your name whenever she was sick enough to forget she wasn't supposed to.”
I looked through the glass.
The doctors were still around Rachel.
“What happened to you after you were born?”
“My parents adopted me through a private clinic.”
“Where?”
“Outside Tulsa.”
“Who arranged it?”
“A doctor named Harlan Vale.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Rachel remembers giving birth?”
“Pieces.”
“What does that mean?”
“She remembers labor. She remembers being frightened. She remembers Elaine. Then medication.”
“And after?”
“She woke up and was told the baby died.”
I felt sick.
“She believed you were dead.”
“For twenty-two years.”
“Then how did she find you?”
“The cancer surgery.”
Grace looked toward Rachel's room.
“When the doctors mentioned the old scarring, she began asking questions. She requested records from the clinic where she'd delivered. Most were missing. Elaine told her to stop digging.”
“But she didn't.”
“No.”
“She used the registry.”
“Yes.”
“And found you.”
“Eventually.”
“Why didn't she tell me then?”
Grace's eyes lowered.
“The cancer had returned.”
Of course.
Rachel had found the daughter she believed dead at almost the same moment she decided I deserved to remain ignorant.
I rubbed my forehead.
“Elaine said there was no funeral.”
“There wasn't.”
“Because you weren't dead.”
“Yes.”
“Who told Rachel you were?”
“Elaine says the doctor did.”
“Do you believe her?”
Grace hesitated.
“No.”
The door to Rachel's room opened.
A physician stepped out.
“She's stable.”
I stood.
“Can I see her?”
“Not yet.”
Grace asked, “What happened?”
“Cardiac rhythm disturbance triggered by stress. We need to keep stimulation to a minimum.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
Somewhere in the building, my former wife was fighting cancer.
A daughter I had never known existed stood beside me.
And Elaine was calling from Rachel's phone telling me to stay away.
“How do I prove I'm Grace's father?”
Grace looked at me.
“A DNA test.”
“Do it.”
“Daniel, you don't have to decide now.”
“Yes, I do.”
I held out my arm.
“Take whatever you need.”
Grace's expression broke.
Not because she was frightened.
Because she had been waiting.
She nodded.
“I'll arrange it.”
Then a hospital security guard approached the nurses' station.
“Grace?”
She turned.
“There’s a woman asking for Rachel Whitmore.”
My stomach tightened.
“Elaine?”
The guard shook his head.
“She says her name is Leah.”
Grace went completely still.
I looked at her.
“Who is Leah?”
Her face had drained of color.
“I don't know.”
The security guard held out a folded note.
“She said to give this to Daniel.”
I opened it.
There were only six words.
ASK ELAINE ABOUT THE SECOND BABY.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: A Stranger Named Leah Mentioned a Second Baby, and Rachel’s Old Medical Records Revealed Why Elaine Was Terrified
Three Years After Our Divorce, Rachel Left Her Wedding Ring on My Pillow and Vanished Before I Woke
Part 3 of 43
