The police officers arrived less than two minutes later.
One stayed outside the room while the other spoke quietly with the security officer. Dr. Harris closed the door behind them and asked everyone to remain where they were.
The folder sat on the chair.
My name was written across it in black ink.
CLAIRE BENNETT.
I stared at it without touching it.
Daniel stood beside Emily's bed.
“Don't open it,” he said.
I turned toward him.
“Why?”
“Because I don't know what's inside.”
“You knew enough to be afraid of it.”
“I've been afraid of it for two years.”
One of the officers stepped closer.
“Mrs. Bennett, did that man leave this?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else touch it?”
“No.”
He put on gloves before lifting the folder.
The moment he opened it, several photographs slid onto the chair.
I recognized Emily immediately.
She was eight years old in the first photograph.
She was sitting in a clinic waiting room, swinging her legs beneath a chair.
I stared at the date printed beneath it.
Three years earlier.
My stomach tightened.
“She was never at that clinic,” I whispered.
Daniel looked at the photograph.
“I know.”
I turned toward him.
“You told me she had never seen Mercer.”
“I told you what I thought would keep you safe.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“No.”
The officer lifted another photograph.
This one showed Emily asleep on an examination table.
There was a small adhesive patch on her abdomen.
I couldn't breathe.
“When was this taken?”
Daniel answered.
“The first time I took her there.”
I looked at him.
“You took her without telling me?”
“You were working nights.”
“That doesn't give you permission.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because she kept saying her stomach hurt.”
I shook my head.
“She was eight.”
“I thought I was helping.”
The officer removed a thin envelope from the folder.
Inside was a handwritten note.
He read it silently, then looked at Dr. Harris.
“Doctor, do you recognize this?”
Harris took one glance.
His face hardened.
“Yes.”
“Whose handwriting?”
“Mercer's.”
The officer handed him the paper.
Dr. Harris read it again.
“What does it say?” I asked.
He hesitated.
Then he looked at me.
“It says Emily was considered a promising case.”
The words made my skin crawl.
“A promising case?”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“She wasn't sick enough for him.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“He needed symptoms he could measure.”
Emily began crying again.
I moved beside her.
“No more.”
She looked up at me.
“Mom, there was another girl.”
“What girl?”
“At the clinic.”
“What about her?”
“She had the same pain.”
Daniel's head snapped toward her.
“Emily.”
She looked at him.
“I remember.”
The police officer crouched beside the bed.
“Do you remember her name?”
Emily shook her head.
“Only that she had a yellow bracelet.”
Dr. Harris went still.
“What?”
“A yellow bracelet,” Emily repeated.
“Was it a hospital bracelet?”
“No. It had a little bird on it.”
Dr. Harris looked at Daniel.
Daniel's face had gone pale.
“What?” I demanded.
He whispered, “That was Anna.”
“Who was Anna?”
“One of the children.”
“The ones who died?”
He nodded.
Emily stared at him.
“She died?”
Daniel couldn't answer.
The officer asked, “How long ago?”
“Two years.”
The room fell quiet.
I looked at the photographs again.
Eight-year-old Emily.
A clinic.
Mercer.
A child who died.
And my husband had known.
For years, I had believed our marriage ended because Daniel stopped communicating, became distant, and eventually left.
Now I wondered whether he had been carrying a secret so terrible that it had swallowed every other part of his life.
The officer opened the second envelope.
Inside was a list.
Six names.
Dates.
Symptoms.
Treatment.
Outcome.
At the bottom was Emily's name.
But beside it was a handwritten word:
ONGOING.
I felt something inside me break.
“She was still part of this?”
Daniel shook his head.
“I thought I ended it.”
“You thought?”
“I took her away.”
“Then why does Mercer still have records?”
“I don't know.”
Dr. Harris looked at the list.
“You didn't end it.”
Daniel looked at him.
“What are you saying?”
“The testing continued.”
Daniel stared at the paper.
“No.”
Harris pointed toward the bottom of the page.
“Look at the dates.”
Daniel leaned closer.
His face changed.
The most recent entry was dated three weeks earlier.
Three weeks.
Emily had been complaining of pain again for almost a month.
I looked at my daughter.
“Did someone contact you?”
She shook her head.
“Did anyone give you medicine?”
Another pause.
Then she nodded.
My heart stopped.
“Who?”
She looked at Daniel.
He whispered, “Em.”
“Who gave you medicine?”
She lowered her eyes.
“Dad did.”
I turned toward him.
Daniel looked devastated.
“I thought it was the medicine you had prescribed.”
“I didn't prescribe anything.”
“I know that now.”
“Daniel.”
“I was given the bottle by someone I trusted.”
“Who?”
He looked at the folder.
“Mercer.”
I stared at him.
“You gave our daughter medicine from Mercer?”
“I didn't know what it was.”
“You didn't check?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“The label was legitimate.”
Dr. Harris picked up the bottle from the evidence bag.
“Where is the container?”
Daniel pointed toward his coat.
The officer removed it.
Dr. Harris examined the label.
Then he shook his head.
“This isn't the original packaging.”
Daniel looked at him.
“What?”
“The lot number doesn't match.”
The officer photographed it.
I suddenly understood something.
Mercer hadn't needed to enter our lives again.
He had found another way inside.
Through Daniel.
The realization hurt more than I expected.
Daniel saw it on my face.
“Claire.”
“Don't.”
“I swear I didn't know.”
“You should have.”
He lowered his head.
Emily reached for my hand.
I held it.
Outside, someone called for the police officers.
One officer stepped into the hallway.
A moment later, he returned.
“We have a problem.”
“What now?” I asked.
He looked at Dr. Harris.
“Dr. Mercer is not in the building.”
“We know.”
“No.”
The officer shook his head.
“He didn't leave through the main entrance.”
Daniel stood.
“Then how?”
The officer's expression was grim.
“He was seen entering the restricted service corridor.”
Dr. Harris went pale.
“That corridor leads to the old records storage area.”
Daniel whispered, “The original files.”
The officer looked at him.
“What original files?”
Daniel stared at the folder.
“The evidence we never found.”
Then the lights flickered.
Emily grabbed my arm.
A second later, the emergency alarm began to sound.
And somewhere beneath the hospital, a door slammed.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: While the Hospital Went Into Lockdown, Emily Remembered the One Detail That Could Lead Us to the Missing Children’s Records
The Moment My Daughter Stopped Crying, She Looked Past Me and Whispered Something That Made the Emergency Room Go Quiet
Part 5 of 12
