Chapter 10: The Woman We Buried
My father read the police report again.
Then he read it a third time.
"I identified her," he whispered.
"I remember the funeral. I remember seeing the coffin.""
Margaret had arrived at the hotel less than twenty minutes after Dad called her. She stood beside the desk, examining the report with a magnifying glass.
"Richard, was the coffin ever opened?""
Dad shook his head.
"No. The funeral director said the injuries made identification difficult. They told me it was better to have a closed-casket service.""
Margaret looked up.
"Who recommended that?""
"Daniel.""
The room went silent.
I felt my knees weaken.
"Uncle Daniel arranged Mom's funeral?""
Dad nodded.
"He said he wanted to help because I wasn't thinking clearly.""
Margaret placed the report on the table.
"Then we need the original death certificate, the medical examiner's records, and the funeral home's documentation.""
Dad immediately called the police department.
Officer Harris answered.
"Mr. Bennett, I was about to contact you.""
"Someone forged my signature on my wife's identification report.""
There was a pause.
"Can you send me the document?""
"I already have.""
"Mr. Bennett, I need you to listen carefully. We reviewed the original accident file after your earlier call. There's a discrepancy.""
"What discrepancy?""
"The vehicle registration belonged to Isabelle Bennett. However, the body recovered from the vehicle was never positively identified through fingerprints or dental records.""
Dad gripped the phone.
"Then how did you issue a death certificate?""
"An identification affidavit was submitted by a family representative.""
"Who?""
Another pause.
"Daniel Carter.""
Dad closed his eyes.
"He's my brother.""
"I understand. We're reopening the case.""
I took the phone.
"Officer, did anyone ever verify that the woman in the car was my mother?""
He hesitated.
"Not conclusively, Maya.""
I couldn't breathe.
Eight years.
Eight birthdays.
Eight Mother's Days spent leaving flowers at a grave.
And nobody had ever confirmed that the woman buried beneath that stone was Isabelle.
Margaret immediately began making calls.
She contacted the funeral home, the county medical examiner, and the hospital where my mother had supposedly been treated.
By midnight, she had one important discovery.
The funeral home still had the original intake records.
The body had arrived under a temporary identification number.
But the number didn't match the hospital records.
"There's another patient with a similar identification number," Margaret said.
Dad looked up.
"Who?""
Margaret checked her notes.
"A woman admitted to the same hospital that evening. She was unconscious, had no identification, and was transferred to a private facility two days later.""
"Did she have a name?""
Margaret hesitated.
"According to the hospital's handwritten notes, the patient was listed as Jane Doe.""
I felt my heart pounding.
"Was she alive?""
Margaret nodded.
"Yes.""
Dad stood so quickly his chair fell backward.
"Where was she transferred?""
Margaret showed him the address.
A private rehabilitation center nearly two hundred miles away.
The next morning, we drove there with Officer Harris.
The facility was quiet, surrounded by tall trees and a white fence.
A receptionist greeted us.
"Good morning. How can I help you?""
Officer Harris showed his badge.
"We're looking for a patient admitted eight years ago under the name Jane Doe.""
The receptionist checked the archived records.
Her expression changed.
"That file is restricted.""
"By whom?"" Margaret asked.
The receptionist hesitated.
"An attorney named Daniel Carter.""
Dad slammed his hand against the counter.
"Of course.""
The receptionist called the medical director.
Twenty minutes later, a gray-haired physician entered the lobby.
"My name is Dr. Wallace. I understand you're looking for an old patient.""
Officer Harris explained the situation.
The doctor looked through several records.
"Jane Doe was transferred here after a serious head injury. She remained unconscious for several weeks.""
"What happened afterward?"" I asked.
"She regained consciousness, but she suffered memory loss.""
Dad stepped closer.
"Did she ever identify herself?""
The doctor looked at the computer.
"Eventually, yes. She told one of our nurses her name was Isabelle.""
My father grabbed the counter.
"Isabelle Bennett?""
The doctor nodded slowly.
"That's what she said.""
I started crying.
"Where is she now?""
Dr. Wallace examined the screen.
"She was discharged four years ago.""
Dad's voice cracked.
"To where?""
The doctor hesitated.
Then he turned the monitor toward us.
A discharge address appeared.
And beneath it was a name.
*Rebecca Miller.*
Margaret covered her mouth.
The woman we had been searching for wasn't just a witness.
She had been the person caring for my mother.
Dr. Wallace opened another archived document.
"There's something else. The patient specifically requested that a letter be delivered to her daughter when she was old enough.""
He removed a sealed envelope from a locked cabinet.
My name was written across the front.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Mom's.
I reached for it with shaking fingers.
But before I could open it, Dad noticed the date stamped on the envelope.
Four years earlier.
He looked at the doctor.
"Why wasn't this delivered?""
The doctor lowered his eyes.
"Because someone came here claiming to be Isabelle's husband.""
Dad's face went white.
"Who?""
The doctor answered quietly.
"Richard Bennett.""
My father stumbled backward.
May you like
Someone had been impersonating him.
And whoever it was had known exactly where my mother was.
