Chapter 8: The Second Daughter
I drove toward the Lakeshore property with Daniel on the phone and Jessica's photograph on the passenger seat.
The streets were slick from an afternoon shower. Headlights smeared across the windshield, and every red light felt like an obstacle placed there deliberately to keep me from my daughter.
Daniel was still speaking.
“Michael, listen to me. The old storage buildings have several entrances. If Richard knows we're coming, he'll have time to move Emma.””
“Then tell the police where she is.””
“I did. They're sending officers.””
“Good. Stay away from the property.””
“I'm coming with you.””
“No.””
“She's my niece.””
“And you're the reason Rachel was investigating the money in the first place.””
The silence that followed was painful.
Then Daniel said, “You're right.””
I heard him inhale shakily.
“But I won't run away again.””
I ended the call without answering.
The photograph lay beside me, its edges curling from years of being hidden.
Two girls. One secret. One promise.
Rachel had written those words before she died, which meant the secret had existed long before Jessica entered our lives.
I thought back to Emma's birth.
Rachel had delivered her at St. Mary's Hospital after a difficult labor. I remembered holding our daughter in the recovery room while Rachel slept, exhausted and pale.
There had been no other baby.
No second pregnancy.
No secret daughter.
Unless the secret had nothing to do with birth.
My phone rang again. This time, it was Dr. Whitmore.
I answered through the car's hands-free system.
“Tell me what you know about Rachel.””
He sounded breathless.
“Michael, where are you?””
“On my way to find Emma.””
“Don't go inside that property alone.””
“I'm not asking for advice. I'm asking what you know.””
He hesitated.
Then he said, “Rachel came to see me three days before she died. She believed someone had been using your business accounts to finance an illegal adoption network.””
My foot eased off the accelerator.
“An adoption network?””
“That's what she called it. She had discovered payments to an agency that handled private placements. She believed some records had been falsified.””
“Did she mention another child?””
“Yes.””
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“What child?””
“She didn't know the child's current name. She showed me a photograph of a little girl and said the records connected that child to a woman who had died under suspicious circumstances.””
I glanced at the photograph beside me.
“Was Richard involved?””
“I can't prove that. But he called me after Rachel died and told me she had been experiencing paranoia. He wanted me to document her supposed instability.””
“And you agreed?””
“No,” he said quickly.
“I refused. But I should have reported what she told me.””
“You should have.””
“I know.””
A horn blared behind me as I changed lanes.
“Why didn't you tell me any of this before?””
“Because I was afraid Richard would accuse me of violating patient confidentiality. And because I thought the police had investigated Rachel's death thoroughly.””
I laughed without humor.
“Everyone thought someone else would handle the truth.””
The road narrowed as I approached the old industrial district. Ahead, the abandoned water tower rose above a cluster of dark buildings.
“Michael,” Whitmore said, “there's something else. Rachel believed the child in the photograph was connected to a woman named Claire Bennett.””
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who was she?””
“I don't know. Rachel said Claire had disappeared several years earlier.””
My phone beeped.
Another message from Richard.
Five minutes. Bring the notebook.
I looked at the clock.
I had no notebook. Emma had taken it with her.
I pulled into a deserted gas station and searched the car, hoping I had somehow brought another copy. There was nothing.
Then I remembered the photograph.
I turned it over and examined the edges. Beneath the handwritten sentence was a faint series of numbers.
A date and a set of initials.
*C.B. — 04/17.*
Claire Bennett.
April seventeenth.
I called Dr. Whitmore again.
“Do you know what April seventeenth means?””
“No.””
“Could it be the date of the adoption?””
“Possibly. But I can't be sure.””
I stared at the initials.
Then I noticed something else.
The photograph had been printed on thick paper. A narrow strip of white material protruded from the bottom edge, as if another picture had once been attached to it.
I carefully peeled it back.
Underneath was a handwritten phone number.
And a single word.
*Claire.*
I called it.
A woman answered after three rings.
“Hello?””
“I'm looking for Claire Bennett.””
“Who is this?””
“My name is Michael. My daughter is missing, and I believe you may know something about my wife's death.””
The woman stopped breathing for a moment.
Then she whispered, “Rachel's husband?””
“Yes.””
“Oh, God.””
“Do you know what happened to Rachel?””
“I know what she was trying to prove.””
“Tell me.””
Her voice trembled.
“Richard Cole wasn't just moving money through adoption agencies. He was paying people to falsify records. Rachel discovered that a child who had supposedly died at birth was still alive.””
I gripped the steering wheel.
“Who was the child?””
“Her name was Lily. She was born six years before your daughter.””
I stared at the photograph.
The little girl beside Richard would have been about three.
“Was Lily Rachel's daughter?””
“No,” Claire replied.
“Lily was my daughter.””
My throat tightened.
“Then why did Rachel have her photograph?””
“Because Rachel was helping me find her.””
The line crackled.
Claire began to cry.
“Lily was taken from the hospital after I gave birth. I was told she hadn't survived. Years later, I discovered the death certificate was forged. Rachel found records connecting Richard to the agency that handled the placement.””
“Where was Lily taken?””
“I don't know. But Rachel believed the family who received her was connected to someone powerful.””
“Who?””
Claire's answer came so quietly I almost missed it.
“Someone inside your family.””
Before I could ask another question, headlights appeared behind me.
A black SUV pulled into the gas station.
Two men stepped out.
One approached my driver's window and tapped the glass.
I ended the call.
“Michael?”” he asked.
I kept the doors locked.
“Who are you?””
“Mr. Cole sent us. He says you're late.””
I looked toward the road leading to the storage buildings.
“Where's my daughter?””
The man smiled without warmth.
“She's safe. For now.””
He held out his hand.
“Give me the photograph.””
I stared at him.
“How do you know about the photograph?””
His smile vanished.
Then he reached inside his jacket.
I started the engine.
He stepped back as I accelerated out of the station, tires squealing against wet pavement.
My phone rang again.
Claire.
I answered.
“Michael, listen carefully. If Richard has Emma, you need to find the original adoption file. Rachel hid it somewhere no one would think to look.””
“Where?””
“At your house.””
I slammed on the brakes at the next intersection.
“What?””
“Rachel told me she had hidden it inside something Emma used every day. She said it was the only place Richard would never search.””
I thought of Emma's bedroom.
Her school bag. Her books. Her music box.
Then I remembered the little silver bracelet in the photograph.
The one I had buried with Rachel's belongings.
“Claire,” I whispered, “what was Lily's birthday?””
She answered immediately.
“October seventeenth.””
My blood ran cold.
Today was October nineteenth.
Emma's birthday was October eighteenth.
And Rachel had died on October seventeenth.
Three dates. Three years apart.
A pattern I had never noticed.
May you like
Before I could speak, Claire said something that shattered the last certainty I had left.
“Michael, Lily wasn't the only baby whose records were changed that night.””
