Chapter 10 - THE FATHER'S SIGNATURE
Damian admitted it at 7:15 that evening.
He had held Lila.
For less than a minute.
But he had held her.
We were inside a private conference room at Morgan Pediatric while police searched admission systems for any child registered as Lila Vale.
No match had appeared yet.
I stood across from Damian.
“Tell me everything.”
His attorney objected.
Damian told him to leave.
That surprised me.
When the door closed, he looked older than he had two days earlier.
Not sympathetic.
Not forgiven.
Just stripped of the confidence money had always given him.
“I saw both babies.”
“You told me you didn’t.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“My mother told me you were unstable.”
I laughed once.
“You always come back to that.”
“I’m not excusing it.”
“Good.”
He looked down.
“Lila was tiny.”
My throat tightened.
“She had dark hair.”
I said nothing.
“She grabbed my finger.”
I closed my eyes.
That image belonged to me.
And yet he had been there.
“She stopped crying when I spoke.”
“Stop.”
“Mara—”
“You don’t get to give me beautiful memories of the child you helped hide.”
His face tightened.
“You’re right.”
“Why did you sign?”
“Voss said she needed specialized transfer.”
“Did you read the form?”
“No.”
“You signed without reading.”
“Yes.”
“Because your mother told you to.”
“Yes.”
“What happened next?”
“An hour later, my mother told me Lila crashed during transport.”
“Did you ask for proof?”
“I was twenty feet from you. You were hemorrhaging. Noah was in intensive observation. Everything was chaos.”
“Later.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask later?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She showed me a death summary.”
“Fake.”
“I know that now.”
“When did you learn?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“How?”
“An accountant called me.”
“What accountant?”
“Samuel Pierce. Trust compliance.”
The name was new.
“He found an old birth-time discrepancy during annual review.”
“Where is he?”
Damian looked at Reed through the glass.
“Missing.”
My stomach dropped.
“Since when?”
“Six days.”
“Why didn’t you report it?”
“I thought he ran.”
“Why?”
“He stole copies of foundation ledgers.”
I stared at him.
“Or he discovered what your mother was doing.”
“Yes.”
“So three weeks ago, you confronted Eleanor.”
“Yes.”
“That’s the recording.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What recording?”
I ignored him.
“She admitted Lila was alive.”
“Yes.”
“And you still didn’t tell me.”
“She said if I did, she would move Lila.”
“She moved her anyway.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you threaten me?”
His face changed.
There was no good answer.
“I panicked.”
“No.”
“Mara—”
“You were afraid of losing control.”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
At least this time he told the truth.
“I spent my entire life watching my father obey her,” he said.
“That’s not my tragedy.”
“I know.”
“I will never raise Noah to become you.”
He flinched.
Good.
He should.
A knock came at the door.
Evelyn entered with Detective Reed.
“We found Lila.”
My legs weakened.
“Where?”
“She was admitted under another alias.”
“Which?”
“Emily Ross.”
“Why?”
“Someone changed the registration eighteen minutes before admission.”
“Is she here?”
Evelyn nodded.
“Yes.”
I grabbed the table.
“Can I see her?”
“Soon.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s stable.”
I started crying.
Not loudly.
The tears just came.
Seven weeks of grief.
Fear.
Rage.
And suddenly, two floors above me, my daughter was breathing.
Alive.
“Mara,” Evelyn said softly.
“There’s a complication.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“The consent form.”
I looked at Damian.
Evelyn placed it on the table.
Parent or guardian authorization.
A signature already filled the bottom line.
Damian Blackwood.
I stared at him.
“Did you sign this?”
“No.”
“It’s your name.”
“That’s not my signature.”
Reed examined it.
“Looks close.”
Damian took the paper.
Then went pale.
“I know who signed it.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
I had met Charles Blackwood only six times.
He lived mostly in Switzerland.
Quiet.
Detached.
Always described as ill.
Always absent when Eleanor was involved.
Damian whispered:
“He’s been dead for eight months.”
May you like
And suddenly the Blackwood conspiracy extended beyond a stolen baby.
Someone was using a dead man’s identity to authorize my daughter’s surgery.
