Chapter 4 — The Secret Claire Hid at the Hospital
Chapter 4 — The Secret Claire Hid at the Hospital
Claire didn’t say a word.
She just stared at the photograph in my hand.
“Which hospital?” I asked.
Her lips parted.
Nothing came out.
“Claire.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“That sentence is getting old.”
She looked toward the front door.
The man outside was still standing there.
Still smiling.
Still holding the photograph of my father.
I lowered my voice.
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know what hospital he’s talking about.”
“Yes.”
“Then start talking.”
Claire took a shaky breath.
“Carolinas Medical Center.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened there?”
She looked at me.
“Your father died there.”
I frowned.
“No. My father died at home.”
“That’s what everyone was told.”
I felt the room tilt.
“My father’s death certificate says—”
“I know what it says.”
She stepped closer.
“But that’s not where he died.”
I stared at her.
“What are you saying?”
“Your father was taken to the hospital after he collapsed.”
“When?”
“The night before they announced his death.”
I couldn’t speak.
For twelve years, I had believed I knew exactly how my father died.
A cardiac event.
Sudden.
At home.
That’s what my mother had told me.
That’s what the police report said.
That’s what the funeral home had told us.
That’s what everyone had told me.
Except Claire.
“Why were you there?”
She looked down.
“Because Daniel called me.”
My jaw tightened.
“Why would Daniel call you?”
“He said your father had asked him to find someone.”
“Who?”
“A doctor.”
“What doctor?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“You don’t know the name of the doctor who treated my father?”
“I never met him.”
“Then why were you there?”
Claire’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because I was the person Daniel trusted to get inside.”
I stared at her.
“You broke into a hospital?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I went there to retrieve something.”
“What?”
“A file.”
My heart sank.
“The Henderson file?”
She nodded.
I suddenly remembered Daniel’s phone call.
Your father left something behind.
I looked toward the door.
“Why does everyone keep talking about this file?”
Claire didn’t answer.
“What’s inside it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve been involved in this for months.”
“I never saw the whole thing.”
“Then what did you see?”
She hesitated.
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
“Your father.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
Her voice dropped.
“Of your father with a newborn baby.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
Claire looked at me.
“The photograph was taken at the hospital.”
I shook my head.
“That’s impossible.”
“I saw it.”
“My father had no other children.”
“I know.”
“Then who was the baby?”
Claire’s eyes filled with tears.
“You.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was the only response my brain could produce.
“That’s impossible.”
“Caleb…”
“My father died when I was twenty-three.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t a newborn.”
“I know.”
“Then what did you see?”
She closed her eyes.
“The photograph wasn’t of you.”
Silence.
I stared at her.
“Then who?”
Before she could answer, the man outside knocked again.
This time, harder.
“Caleb!”
I turned toward the door.
Claire grabbed my arm.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows about the baby.”
“What baby?”
She looked at me.
“The baby your father had.”
My heart began pounding.
I looked at the photograph again.
My father was standing beside a hospital bed.
A woman lay beneath a white sheet.
And in his arms was a newborn baby.
The woman’s face was hidden.
But on the photograph’s lower corner was a date.
Twelve years ago.
The same week my father died.
I turned it over.
There was handwriting on the back.
He was never supposed to know.
I looked at Claire.
“Who wrote this?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I swear I’m not.”
My phone rang.
Daniel again.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“Not far.”
“Someone is at my house pretending to be you.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because he’s been following me too.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then tell me what the hell is happening.”
Daniel was silent.
“Caleb, listen to me. You can’t trust anyone around you.”
“Not even you?”
“Especially not me.”
I froze.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve been lying to you too.”
Claire closed her eyes.
I looked at her.
“What have you been lying about?”
Daniel’s voice came through the speaker.
“Your father didn’t die twelve years ago.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“He survived.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“What happened?”
“He disappeared from the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Because someone came for him.”
“Who?”
“The same people who are coming for you.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Claire was crying.
I turned toward her.
“You knew.”
She didn’t answer.
“You knew my father might be alive.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“But you knew.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Four months.”
My anger exploded.
“Four months?”
“I was trying to find out the truth.”
“You were sleeping with Daniel, investigating my father, accessing my medical records, and hiding the possibility that my father was alive.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“It sounds like my entire marriage was a conspiracy.”
Claire looked at me.
“Maybe it was.”
The words silenced me.
Then she reached into her purse.
She pulled out another photograph.
This one was newer.
Much newer.
It showed an elderly man sitting in a wheelchair.
His face was turned toward the camera.
My heart stopped.
It was my father.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakable.
On the back was a date.
Three weeks ago.
I looked at Claire.
“Where was this taken?”
She whispered,
“A private rehabilitation center in Virginia.”
“Is he still there?”
“No.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who took the photograph?”
“Daniel.”
I looked at my phone.
The man outside suddenly stepped away from the door.
He walked back toward the SUV.
Then he stopped.
He turned around.
And raised one finger to his lips.
A warning.
Then he drove away.
I waited until the SUV disappeared.
“Why did he leave?”
Claire shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
You have one hour.
Another message appeared.
Come to the old Henderson warehouse.
Then a third.
Come alone.
I showed Claire.
She immediately shook her head.
“No.”
“I have to go.”
“It’s a trap.”
“Probably.”
“Then don’t go.”
I looked at her.
“If my father is alive, I need answers.”
“Caleb, please.”
I picked up my keys.
She grabbed my hand.
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“I know more than you think.”
“That’s exactly why you’re staying here.”
She stared at me.
Then quietly said,
“You still don’t understand.”
“What?”
“The person who sent those messages isn’t trying to kill you.”
I stopped.
“Then what do they want?”
Claire looked toward the photograph of my father.
“They want you to remember.”
“Remember what?”
She hesitated.
Then said something that made my blood run cold.
“You were at the hospital too.”
I stared at her.
“I was twenty-three.”
“You were unconscious.”
“What?”
“The night your father disappeared, you were admitted to the same hospital.”
I felt a strange pressure behind my eyes.
“I don’t remember that.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because someone removed the records.”
I stared at her.
“Who?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
I looked at the photograph again.
My father.
The hospital.
The newborn.
Me, unconscious somewhere inside the same building.
Suddenly, fragments began appearing in my mind.
White lights.
A hallway.
A woman’s voice.
Someone holding my hand.
And my father’s voice saying:
“Don’t let him remember.”
I staggered backward.
Claire grabbed me.
“What happened?”
I looked at her.
“I remember something.”
“What?”
“My father.”
“What did he say?”
I swallowed.
“He wasn’t talking about himself.”
“What do you mean?”
I looked at the photograph.
Then at Claire.
“He was talking about me.”
My phone buzzed again.
This time, the message contained only one sentence.
Ask Claire who the baby belongs to.
I slowly raised my eyes.
Claire was already crying.
“Tell me,” I said.
She shook her head.
“Claire.”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me.”
She covered her face.
Then whispered the words I had been dreading.
“The baby wasn’t your father’s.”
I stared at her.
“Then whose baby was it?”
Claire lowered her hands.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Yours.”
I couldn’t move.
She continued.
“The baby in that photograph…”
She looked directly into my eyes.
“Was you.”
My heart stopped.
And suddenly, the twelve years I thought I remembered began to feel like a story someone else had written for me.
Then my phone rang one final time.
This time, I answered.
A man’s voice spoke.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it once before.
On the day my father supposedly died.
It said only four words:
“Son, come find me.”
And then the call ended.
