Chapter 8: The Man Behind the Hospital Window
I stared at the photograph until the edges of the screen blurred.
The man beside the hospital window had a thin face, silver hair, and a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
I knew that scar.
My mother had shown me an old family photograph when I was a child. My father had been laughing, his arm around Gloria's shoulders, with the same scar visible above his eye.
I had spent thirty-six years believing he was dead.
Now he was looking straight into a camera.
Alive.
"Mom," I whispered.
Gloria looked at my phone.
The moment she saw the photograph, her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh, Daniel.""
The name escaped her like a prayer.
She reached toward the screen, her fingers trembling.
"He's alive.""
I crouched beside her wheelchair.
"We're going to find him.""
She grabbed my hand.
"Promise me something.""
"Anything.""
"If he's alive, don't let him take you away from me.""
I stared at her.
"Mom, nobody is taking me anywhere.""
She shook her head, tears running down her cheeks.
"You don't know what happened the last time he tried to protect you.""
Before I could ask what she meant, Tiana stepped forward.
"I know where that photograph was taken.""
I turned toward her.
"How?""
She held up her phone.
"The rehabilitation center. That's where Patricia lives.""
"Then why did the message say they're moving him?""
Tiana's face tightened.
"Because Patricia isn't the only person involved.""
She opened an email and showed me a photograph of a corridor lined with patient rooms. A man in a charcoal suit stood near the nurses' station, his back turned to the camera.
I recognized him immediately.
Dr. Brooks.
I looked toward the chapel doors.
The doctor was gone.
"Where is he?"" I demanded.
Nobody answered.
I turned toward the guests.
"Did anyone see Dr. Brooks leave?""
Andre stepped into the aisle.
"I saw him go through the side door about five minutes ago.""
"Why didn't you stop him?""
Andre looked startled.
"I didn't know he was running away.""
I checked the time on my phone.
Nine minutes remained.
I turned to Tiana.
"Give me the address.""
She hesitated.
"Malcolm, listen to me. Patricia isn't what you think she is.""
"I don't know what I think she is anymore.""
"She told me that Daniel was being held somewhere under medical supervision. She said he couldn't leave because of his condition.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"Because she made me believe he would be safer if you didn't know.""
I stared at her.
"And you believed her?""
Tiana looked down.
"I wanted to believe her.""
That was the first honest thing she had said all morning.
I took the address from her phone and called Andre.
"Get the car.""
He nodded immediately.
Then I turned to my mother.
"You're coming with me.""
Gloria shook her head.
"I can't.""
"Yes, you can.""
"Malcolm, please. I need you to understand something. Your father may be alive, but that doesn't mean he's the same man who left us.""
I knelt in front of her.
"He's still my father.""
"And I'm still your mother.""
Her voice broke.
I took her hands.
"You will always be my mother. Nothing in that letter changes what you did for me.""
She stared at me, searching my face for doubt.
I had none.
"I love you," I whispered.
"Now let me find out why everyone has been lying to us.""
For a moment, she seemed ready to agree.
Then Tiana spoke from behind us.
"There's another problem.""
I stood.
"What now?""
She looked toward the chapel doors.
"The agreement I signed gives Patricia permission to access Gloria's medical records. But it also gives her permission to make decisions about Gloria's treatment if certain conditions are met.""
My stomach tightened.
"What conditions?""
Tiana swallowed.
"If Gloria is declared medically incapable of making decisions for herself.""
I stared at her.
"She's perfectly capable.""
"I know.""
"Then the agreement means nothing.""
Tiana's eyes filled with fresh tears.
"Not if Patricia has a doctor willing to certify otherwise.""
I thought of Dr. Brooks leaving through the side door.
Suddenly, the pieces began to fit together.
The missing medical records.
The changing rehabilitation medications.
The pressure to keep Gloria from seeking a second opinion.
The wheelchair.
Someone had been trying to control my mother's life through her medical care, and Tiana had signed paperwork that could help them do it.
I looked at her.
"Did you know about this clause?""
"No.""
"Did you read the agreement?""
She hesitated.
"I read the first two pages.""
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had believed Tiana was the woman who would stand beside me when life became difficult. I had mistaken her confidence for strength and her ambition for determination.
Now I could barely recognize her.
"You're going to give me every document you have," I said.
"Every email, every photograph, every message.""
She nodded.
"And after that, you will tell the police exactly what you signed.""
She swallowed.
"Will you come with me?""
I looked at her wedding gown, the crushed wig near the altar, and the ring I had left on the wood.
"No.""
Her face crumpled.
"Malcolm—"
"You don't get to ask me to comfort you right now.""
I turned away.
Andre wheeled Gloria toward the side exit while I gathered the letter and photographs. Several guests followed us, but I asked them to stay behind.
We needed fewer witnesses, not more.
The bright afternoon sun struck my face as we stepped outside. I could hear the chapel doors closing behind us.
For the first time all day, I could breathe.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered immediately.
"Where is my father?""
A man's voice replied.
"Malcolm?""
I stopped walking.
The voice was older, roughened by years of disuse, but something in its rhythm was unmistakable.
"Dad?""
Silence.
Then a shaky breath.
"My boy.""
My knees nearly gave way.
I gripped the side of the car.
"Where are you? I'm coming to get you.""
"No. Listen to me carefully. You must not come here.""
"Why?""
"Because they know you've seen the photograph.""
"Who knows?""
"Everyone who matters.""
I looked toward Gloria. She had stopped beside the car, staring at me with a mixture of hope and terror.
"Dad, Mom is here. She's alive. She's been in a wheelchair for decades, and someone has been threatening her.""
The line went silent.
Then my father whispered, "They told me she was dead.""
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
"They told her you were dead.""
A long, broken sound came through the speaker.
"Oh, Gloria.""
My father began to cry.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I forced myself to ask the question that had haunted me since I opened his letter.
"Did you know I wasn't her biological child?""
"Yes.""
"Who was my biological mother?""
My father inhaled sharply.
"Elena Carter.""
I froze.
"How do you know that?""
"Because Elena was my sister.""
The world seemed to stop.
My biological mother was my father's sister.
Gloria had raised her husband's nephew as her own child.
I looked at the hospital photograph again, trying to understand what that meant.
"Dad, why didn't you tell anyone?""
"Because Elena didn't disappear, Malcolm. She was taken.""
"By whom?""
My father's voice dropped to a whisper.
"By the people who switched the records. And Gloria was injured because she tried to bring her home.""
I turned toward my mother.
She had heard him.
Her face was wet with tears.
"Daniel," she whispered toward the phone.
My father heard her voice and broke down completely.
"Gloria, I'm sorry.""
She pressed her hand over her mouth.
I closed my eyes for one second, fighting to hold myself together.
Then my father spoke again.
"Malcolm, there is something else you need to know.""
"What?""
"Elena wasn't the only person they took.""
A door slammed somewhere on his end of the call.
I heard hurried footsteps.
My father whispered, "They're here.""
"Dad!""
"Don't trust Brooks. Don't trust Patricia. And whatever you do, don't let them take Gloria back to that center.""
The call cut off.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
*YOUR FATHER HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED. COME ALONE IF YOU WANT HIM ALIVE.*
May you like
Beneath it was a new address.
And a photograph of Tiana standing outside the rehabilitation center that very morning.
