PART 3 — THE SIX GIRLS
Maya’s hands froze against her stomach.
“Something moved.”
Nobody in the room breathed.
Dr. Lawson looked from her to the CT monitor.
Then back again.
The security officer kept his body against the door while Robert stood on the other side.
“Open it,” Robert said.
His voice was calm now.
That frightened me more than the shouting had.
Dr. Lawson leaned toward Maya.
“Where did you feel it?”
She pointed low on the right side of her abdomen.
“Here.”
“Sharp pain?”
“No.”
“Pressure?”
She swallowed.
“Like something slid.”
My skin went cold.
“That can’t happen,” I said.
Dr. Lawson did not answer.
He reopened the earlier CT image.
Then the most recent one.
The tiny rectangular object had shifted.
Not much.
Maybe several centimeters.
But enough.
He zoomed in.
Dr. Shah stepped closer.
“That isn’t attached.”
“To what?”
I asked.
“Anything.”
My mouth went dry.
“Then what is keeping it inside her?”
No one answered.
Robert knocked again.
“Claire.”
I stared at the door.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
The answer came so easily I almost didn’t understand it.
Dr. Lawson looked at me.
I moved closer to the door.
“You knew something was inside Maya.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Silence.
“HOW LONG?”
“Since she was born.”
The room tilted.
Maya began crying.
“Dad?”
Robert’s voice softened.
“Maya, sweetheart, this isn’t what it looks like.”
She recoiled from the door.
“You told me I was lying.”
“I was trying to keep you safe.”
“You said I was dramatic.”
“I had to stop your mother from bringing you here.”
I felt something inside me turn cold.
“Why?”
Robert exhaled.
“Because hospitals ask questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“Things that were supposed to stay buried.”
I looked at Maya.
She was trembling.
“You heard Dr. Voss.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to my baby?”
No answer.
“Maya’s birth.”
Silence.
“What did you do?”
Robert’s voice came lower.
“I made a decision.”
I almost laughed.
“A decision?”
“Your daughter was dying.”
“Which daughter?”
The room went silent.
He knew exactly what I meant.
“The baby you delivered.”
My knees weakened.
“She was alive?”
“For a while.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“You signed her transfer.”
“Yes.”
“To where?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You handed over our newborn and took home another baby?”
“I saved us.”
My vision narrowed.
“Saved us?”
“You were unconscious. The doctors said your baby wouldn’t make it.”
“So you replaced her?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“THEN TELL ME WHAT IT WAS LIKE.”
Dr. Lawson moved slightly closer.
The security officer glanced at the door.
Robert remained outside.
Then:
“St. Catherine’s had a program.”
“The six girls.”
Silence.
Maya stared at me.
I said:
“Voss told me there were six infants.”
Robert’s breathing changed.
“He shouldn’t have told you that.”
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was Maya’s biological mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe you took a child home without knowing who she belonged to?”
“I was told she had no one.”
Maya whispered:
“That’s a lie.”
Robert stopped speaking.
She wiped her face.
“You lie when you say ‘I was told.’”
I looked at her.
“What?”
She stared at the door.
“He always says that when he knows exactly what happened.”
Robert said:
“Maya.”
“No.”
Her voice shook.
“You said the clinic told you I was fine.”
“You knew I wasn’t.”
“You said Mom was wasting money.”
“You knew about the mass.”
“You gave me pills.”
“I was helping.”
“You scared me.”
That one sentence silenced him.
Dr. Shah crouched beside Maya.
“We need to move you.”
“Where?”
“Operating room.”
Robert slammed the door.
“No!”
Everyone jumped.
Dr. Shah’s expression hardened.
“She may have an unstable pelvic mass and a mobile foreign body.”
“You don’t operate.”
“You don’t get to make that decision from the hallway.”
“I am her father.”
The security officer said:
“You need to back away from the door.”
Robert ignored him.
“If you cut her open, you could trigger it.”
The room went still.
Dr. Lawson stepped closer.
“Trigger what?”
Silence.
“Mr. Thorne.”
Robert breathed hard.
Then:
“The marker.”
“What does the marker do?”
Robert said nothing.
I looked at Dr. Lawson.
Then back at the door.
“Robert.”
“What?”
“You’ve spent fifteen years keeping this inside our daughter.”
“No.”
“You knew hospitals couldn’t scan her.”
“No.”
“You took her to Voss when she got sick.”
“No.”
“You gave her pills afterward.”
Silence.
“What does the marker do?”
Finally:
“It tracks hormonal changes.”
Dr. Shah’s face changed.
“What?”
Robert continued.
“That’s what Voss told me.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“Radiofrequency?”
“No.”
“Passive tag?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what?”
He hit the door with the side of his fist.
“I SAID I DON’T KNOW.”
The security officer raised his radio.
“Backup to pediatric imaging corridor.”
Static.
Still no response.
Emergency power hummed.
Something was wrong with communications.
Dr. Lawson looked at the CT.
“The object doesn’t resemble a conventional tag.”
Dr. Shah leaned closer.
“There’s a capsule around it.”
“What kind?”
“Possibly polymer.”
Maya grabbed my sleeve.
“Mom, I feel sick.”
A wave of color left her face.
The monitor alarm sounded.
Heart rate climbing.
Dr. Shah moved immediately.
“Lie flat.”
Maya curled inward.
“It hurts.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
Then she screamed.
Not loudly.
But sharply.
Her knees drew upward.
The monitor spiked.
Dr. Shah placed a hand on her abdomen.
“Possible torsion.”
Dr. Lawson shouted:
“We’re done waiting. OR now.”
The security officer unlocked the door only long enough for staff to move the stretcher.
Robert rushed forward.
Two hospital employees grabbed him.
He struggled.
“MAYA!”
She covered her ears.
“DON’T LET HIM COME!”
I walked beside the stretcher.
Robert shouted after us:
“IF THEY REMOVE IT, SHE COULD DIE!”
Dr. Shah did not stop.
Neither did I.
At the end of the corridor, Maya grabbed my hand.
“What if Dad’s right?”
I bent close.
“He has had fifteen years to tell the truth.”
Tears ran down her temples.
“He chose not to.”
That answer seemed to settle something inside her.
She nodded.
“Okay.”
Then she whispered:
“Don’t let them throw anything away.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“If they take something out.”
Her eyes closed.
“Keep it.”
I squeezed her hand.
“I will.”
The operating room team moved quickly.
Consent forms.
Anesthesia.
Blood typing.
Another set of labs.
A social worker stayed close.
So did hospital security.
Robert had disappeared again.
Nobody knew where.
At 6:12 p.m., Maya was taken through the double doors.
I stood in the surgical waiting area with blood on my sleeve from where she had gripped me after an IV infiltrated.
I didn’t notice it until later.
Dr. Lawson sat across from me.
“Have you heard from Voss again?”
“No.”
“Robert?”
“No.”
He hesitated.
“What do you know about your husband’s work?”
The question surprised me.
“He works in logistics.”
“What kind?”
“Medical distribution.”
Dr. Lawson’s face tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“Equipment. Supplies. Hospital contracts.”
“Which company?”
“Thorne Biomedical Freight.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“You know it?”
“No.”
“But you reacted.”
“I’ve seen the name.”
“Where?”
He stood.
“Give me a minute.”
He walked toward the nurses’ station.
I stared at the wall.
Thorne Biomedical Freight.
For years Robert had described his work as boring.
Warehouses.
Shipping schedules.
Compliance.
Temperature-controlled deliveries.
I had never asked many questions.
Maybe because he hated questions.
Five minutes later, Dr. Lawson returned with a tablet.
“Your husband’s company made deliveries to St. Catherine’s.”
My pulse jumped.
“When?”
“Before it closed.”
“No.”
“Archive invoices.”
“You can see that?”
“Some old hospital vendor data is shared through our regional network.”
“What kind of deliveries?”
He turned the screen.
Most descriptions were generic.
MEDICAL DEVICES.
BIOLOGICAL STORAGE.
SPECIALTY CONTAINMENT.
Then one line.
PROJECT HERA — SEALED UNITS.
I stared.
“What is Project Hera?”
“I don’t know.”
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A message.
HERA WAS THE SIX GIRLS.
My hands went cold.
I showed Dr. Lawson.
Another message arrived.
ROBERT DIDN’T JUST KNOW ABOUT THE PROGRAM.
HE DELIVERED THE INFANTS.
My stomach turned.
I typed:
WHO ARE YOU?
The reply took longer.
THEN:
SOMEONE WHO LOST A DAUGHTER.
Another message.
JUST LIKE YOU.
I stared at it.
“Another mother,” I whispered.
Dr. Lawson read over my shoulder.
“Ask her name.”
I typed:
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
The response:
LAURA.
My breath stopped.
Laura.
Voss had said Maya’s biological mother was named Laura.
I typed:
ARE YOU MAYA’S MOTHER?
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
Then returned.
Finally:
I DON’T KNOW.
I stared at those three words.
HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW?
The answer came:
BECAUSE THEY SWITCHED MORE THAN ONE BABY.
My heart hammered.
WHO?
ROBERT.
VOSS.
AND A WOMAN NAMED DR. KESSLER.
I showed Dr. Lawson.
He whispered:
“I know Kessler.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Elaine Kessler.”
“Was she at St. Catherine’s?”
“She ran reproductive endocrinology there.”
“Where is she now?”
He looked at me.
“Dead.”
“When?”
“About five years ago.”
Another dead person.
Another missing answer.
Laura texted again.
KESSLER KEPT COPIES.
ASK ROBERT ABOUT THE RED LEDGER.
I typed:
WHERE ARE YOU?
No response.
Another:
PLEASE.
Nothing.
Dr. Lawson said:
“If she really is connected, police need this.”
“Police need Robert first.”
“They’re looking.”
I looked toward the operating-room doors.
“What did Project Hera do?”
“We need records.”
“I don’t want records.”
My voice broke.
“I want to know what they did to my daughter.”
Dr. Lawson sat down.
“I know.”
“No.”
“You don’t.”
I looked at him.
“For fifteen years I thought I knew where she came from.”
“I thought I was the person who carried her.”
“I thought I remembered her first cry.”
“I thought Robert put her beside me because I was too weak to hold her.”
I covered my face.
“What if none of that was her?”
Dr. Lawson waited.
Then:
“The fifteen years after that were her.”
I looked at him.
“She is your daughter.”
That helped.
Not enough.
But some.
At 7:03 p.m., a surgeon came out.
Dr. Shah.
Still wearing her cap.
I stood immediately.
“Maya?”
“Stable.”
My knees almost gave out.
“She’s okay?”
“She’s in recovery.”
“What did you find?”
Dr. Shah removed her mask.
“The ovary had partially twisted.”
“So you fixed it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you remove the mass?”
“We removed most of it while preserving healthy ovarian tissue.”
“Cancer?”
“We won’t know until pathology.”
I nodded.
“And the marker?”
Her expression changed.
“We found it.”
My heartbeat slowed.
“What is it?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is it metal?”
“Partly.”
“Where is it?”
“Pathology and security are documenting it.”
“I told Maya I wouldn’t let anyone throw it away.”
“They won’t.”
I exhaled.
Then Dr. Shah continued.
“There’s something else.”
Of course.
“What?”
“The marker wasn’t simply beside the mass.”
I stared at her.
“It was inside scar tissue attached to it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It appears to have been implanted years ago.”
“How many?”
She hesitated.
My skin prickled.
“How many what?”
“Markers.”
I stopped breathing.
“You said one.”
“That’s what the CT showed.”
“And?”
“We found three.”
The room tilted.
“Three?”
“One larger capsule and two much smaller fragments.”
“Fragments?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Separate devices.”
“What do they do?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Why couldn’t CT see the others?”
“Position. Size. Different material.”
My hands went cold.
“Were they all implanted at the same time?”
“We can’t determine that yet.”
Then she handed me a clear evidence envelope.
Inside, sealed again in a sterile specimen container, sat the largest object.
It was barely longer than my thumbnail.
Off-white.
Rectangular.
A metallic strip ran along one edge.
And something had been printed across the center.
Faded.
But readable.
H-04.
“H?”
I whispered.
“Hera?”
Dr. Shah didn’t answer.
My phone vibrated.
Laura.
WHAT NUMBER?
I stared.
I typed:
H-04.
The reply came immediately.
OH GOD.
My heartbeat changed.
WHAT?
Laura responded:
MY BABY WAS H-04.
I sat down.
No.
Another message:
SHE WAS BORN AT 4:11 A.M.
BROWN HAIR.
SMALL BIRTHMARK BEHIND HER LEFT EAR.
My hands began shaking.
Maya had a birthmark behind her left ear.
A small reddish crescent.
I had kissed it thousands of times.
I typed:
MAYA HAS THAT.
The three dots appeared immediately.
Then:
PLEASE SEND ME A PHOTO OF HER EAR.
I stared at the request.
Dr. Lawson shook his head.
“Don’t send anything identifiable yet.”
He was right.
I typed:
WE NEED TO MEET WITH POLICE.
Laura replied:
I CAN’T.
WHY?
BECAUSE ROBERT THINKS I’M DEAD.
I stared.
“What?”
Dr. Lawson read it.
Then another message:
HE TRIED TO KILL ME IN 2012.
My chest tightened.
WHY?
BECAUSE I FOUND THE LEDGER.
“What ledger?” I whispered.
Then:
THE ONE THAT LISTS WHICH BABY WENT HOME WITH WHICH FAMILY.
My mouth went dry.
“You said they switched babies.”
Laura replied:
YES.
AND NOT ALL SIX WENT TO FAMILIES.
I typed:
WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
She answered:
TWO STAYED IN THE PROGRAM.
My skin prickled.
FOR WHAT?
No answer.
Then:
RESEARCH.
Dr. Lawson looked sick.
I typed:
WHAT KIND?
Laura responded:
OVARIAN DEVELOPMENT.
HORMONE RESPONSE.
FERTILITY.
The mass.
The positive pregnancy test.
The markers.
Maya’s illness.
My vision blurred.
“They experimented on infants?”
Dr. Lawson shook his head.
“We don’t know what exactly happened.”
But even he sounded less sure now.
Laura sent another message.
THE MARKERS WERE SUPPOSED TO TELL THEM WHEN THE GIRLS REACHED CERTAIN DEVELOPMENTAL STAGES.
I typed:
HOW?
I DON’T KNOW.
KESSLER CALLED THEM CHECKPOINTS.
I looked at Dr. Shah.
“She said hormonal changes.”
He nodded.
That matched Robert’s claim.
I typed:
WHAT HAPPENS AT A CHECKPOINT?
Laura replied:
THE GIRL IS SUPPOSED TO BE BROUGHT BACK.
My blood turned cold.
Brought back.
Maya was fifteen.
Developing symptoms.
Robert took her to a secret clinic.
Voss said Robert should have brought her sooner.
I typed:
BACK WHERE?
Laura:
THE HERA SITE.
WHERE?
Three dots.
Then:
I NEVER FOUND OUT.
My phone rang.
Robert.
I stared at his name.
Dr. Lawson said:
“Speaker.”
I answered.
“Where are you?”
Robert ignored me.
“Is she out?”
My skin crawled.
“Yes.”
“Did they remove it?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Robert?”
“What number?”
I looked at the evidence envelope.
He knew the markers were numbered.
“What number?”
I said nothing.
His voice changed.
“Claire.”
“You knew.”
“What number?”
“You knew all of this.”
“WHAT NUMBER?”
I looked at Dr. Lawson.
He shook his head.
I said:
“H-04.”
Robert stopped breathing.
For several seconds, all I heard was static.
Then:
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“You recognize it.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because H-04 died.”
The room went silent.
I looked at the container.
“Maya is alive.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you say H-04 died?”
Robert’s breathing became uneven.
“Because I buried her.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
Dr. Lawson stared at me.
Robert continued:
“Fifteen years ago.”
I gripped the phone.
“You buried a baby?”
“Yes.”
“Whose baby?”
“H-04.”
My stomach turned.
“Laura’s?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where?”
“No.”
“WHERE?”
“No.”
I heard something slam near him.
“Robert.”
He whispered:
“If Maya has H-04’s marker, then the ledger is wrong.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means somebody switched them after I switched them.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“You switched babies?”
Silence.
“You did it yourself?”
“Yes.”
Maya had been right.
He always used “I was told” when he knew exactly what happened.
“Which baby did I deliver?”
Robert whispered:
“H-02.”
My body went numb.
“What happened to her?”
“I told you.”
“She died?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her die?”
Silence.
“ROBERT.”
“No.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“I saw paperwork.”
“You never saw her body?”
“No.”
“Then she could be alive.”
His breathing changed.
“Claire, don’t do this.”
“You took H-04 home thinking she was someone else.”
“No.”
“You buried a baby you thought was H-04.”
“Yes.”
“And now Maya has H-04’s marker.”
“Yes.”
“So who did you bury?”
“I don’t know.”
The sentence was barely audible.
A new terror opened inside me.
“What was in that grave?”
Robert began crying.
For the first time since I had known him, genuinely crying.
“I don’t know.”
I stared at the floor.
“What did you do?”
“I panicked.”
“You stole a baby.”
“They told me yours would die.”
“You stole a baby.”
“I thought I was saving you.”
“You lied for fifteen years.”
“Yes.”
“You watched Maya get sick.”
“I was afraid.”
“You gave her pills.”
“I was trying to slow the symptoms.”
“What pills?”
“Kessler’s formula.”
“She’s been dead five years.”
“I had some left.”
My stomach turned.
“How long have you been planning to bring Maya back?”
Silence.
“Robert.”
“Three years.”
I felt sick.
“Three years?”
“When puberty started.”
“You knew this could happen when she developed.”
“Yes.”
“And you still let me think she was faking?”
“I needed time.”
“For what?”
“To find the ledger.”
Laura’s ledger.
“What would the ledger tell you?”
“Which girl she really is.”
I stared at the marker.
“H-04.”
“No.”
Robert’s voice became urgent.
“The marker may not be hers.”
“What does that mean?”
“It could have been moved.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“By who?”
“Voss.”
“He said it wasn’t him.”
“Voss lies.”
“So do you.”
That stopped him.
Then he said:
“Claire, listen carefully.”
“No.”
“If Maya has H-04’s primary marker, someone has been monitoring her.”
My skin prickled.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does monitoring mean?”
“They know she reached checkpoint.”
“What happens then?”
Robert began breathing harder.
“Someone comes for her.”
My whole body went cold.
I looked toward the recovery-room corridor.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I DON’T.”
A crash sounded on his end.
Then Robert whispered:
“Oh God.”
“What?”
No answer.
“Robert?”
He breathed:
“They found me.”
The line went dead.
Dr. Lawson stood.
“Who found him?”
I didn’t know.
Then hospital security came running into the waiting room.
“Mrs. Thorne?”
I turned.
“What?”
“We found Mr. Thorne’s car.”
“Where?”
“Parking structure.”
“Is he there?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
The officer hesitated.
“Blood.”
My stomach dropped.
“How much?”
“Some on the driver’s seat.”
“Was anyone else seen?”
“We’re checking cameras.”
I looked toward the recovery room.
“Maya.”
The officer nodded.
“We’re increasing security.”
Then his radio crackled.
“Control to pediatric recovery.”
He answered.
“Go.”
“Unidentified female attempting access.”
My skin went cold.
“Description?”
“Forties. Dark coat. No visitor badge.”
Laura?
I grabbed my phone.
I texted:
ARE YOU AT RIVERSIDE?
No reply.
Again.
ARE YOU HERE?
Nothing.
The security officer ran toward recovery.
I followed.
Dr. Lawson followed me.
By the time we reached the doors, two guards were arguing with a woman.
Dark hair streaked with gray.
Thin.
Terrified.
She held both hands where they could see them.
“Please.”
Her eyes found mine.
Then dropped to the evidence bag in my hand.
H-04.
She stopped breathing.
“Claire?”
I stared at her.
“Laura?”
She began crying.
“Oh my God.”
I almost moved toward her.
Security stopped me.
“Do you know her?”
“Maybe.”
Laura pointed through the glass toward Maya’s recovery bay.
“Does she have a birthmark?”
My heart hammered.
“Behind her left ear?”
Laura covered her mouth.
Then sank against the wall.
“My baby.”
The words came out broken.
I stared at her.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“No.”
“I do.”
“We need DNA.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Yes. Test us.”
Then she looked past me.
Her entire face changed.
Not relief.
Terror.
“What?”
I turned.
An older man in a maintenance uniform was walking toward us.
Gray hair.
Glasses.
Hospital cart.
Nothing unusual.
Except Laura backed away.
“No.”
Dr. Lawson looked at her.
“What?”
“That’s him.”
“Who?”
“Voss.”
I stared at the man.
The voice on the phone had sounded older.
Could be.
He stopped ten feet away.
Removed the glasses.
And smiled.
“Laura.”
Security reached for him.
He lifted both hands.
“I’m unarmed.”
I stepped toward him.
“Dr. Voss?”
“Yes.”
“You told me you were hiding.”
“I was.”
“Then why are you here?”
He looked through the recovery-room glass at Maya.
“Because Robert failed.”
Laura screamed:
“Stay away from her!”
Voss looked almost sad.
“I’m trying to save her.”
“From what?”
He looked at the marker in my hand.
“Checkpoint four.”
“What happens at checkpoint four?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“The ovarian tissue activates.”
Dr. Lawson stepped forward.
“Activates how?”
“Growth.”
“The mass?”
“Yes.”
“What was implanted?”
“Not the mass.”
“What?”
“The markers.”
“Why?”
“To identify which subject produced which response.”
Subject.
He called my daughter a subject.
I felt sick.
“How many checkpoints?”
“Six.”
“How many girls?”
“Originally?”
My heart stopped.
“Originally?”
Voss looked at Laura.
Then at me.
“Twelve.”
Laura went completely still.
“You said six.”
“That was the second cohort.”
Dr. Lawson whispered:
“Oh God.”
I stared.
“There were twelve before Maya?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to them?”
Voss’s face changed.
“Some died.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“And the others?”
“Scattered.”
“Families?”
“Some.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
Laura shouted:
“You kept records.”
“Kessler kept records.”
“The red ledger.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
Voss looked at me.
“Robert has it.”
My stomach dropped.
“He told me he was looking for it.”
“He lied.”
Of course.
“Why?”
“Because if you found it, you’d know what he really did.”
“What did he do besides switching babies?”
Voss looked at the floor.
“Robert wasn’t a courier.”
“What was he?”
“He recruited parents.”
The room went silent.
“What?”
“Couples desperate for children.”
“No.”
“Families with money.”
“No.”
“Women whose infants died.”
“Stop.”
“He found people who could be convinced that one baby was as good as another.”
My stomach turned.
“And me?”
Voss didn’t answer.
“And me?”
“You weren’t supposed to know.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He looked at me.
“Robert volunteered you.”
I stopped breathing.
“For what?”
“Replacement placement.”
The floor seemed to move.
“He knew before I gave birth?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“He knew our baby might die?”
“Kessler told him the pregnancy was high risk.”
“And he arranged another infant in advance?”
“Yes.”
I felt physically sick.
“He planned Maya.”
“No.”
Voss shook his head.
“He planned a replacement.”
The distinction was worse.
Maya had not been chosen because Robert loved her.
She had been inventory waiting in case my child died.
I stared through the glass at my sleeping daughter.
Voss continued:
“He was supposed to take H-06.”
“What?”
“Not H-04.”
“Then why does Maya have H-04’s marker?”
“That’s what I came to find out.”
Laura looked at him.
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
“What happened to H-06?”
Voss looked at me.
“Robert buried her.”
My blood turned cold.
“You said he buried H-04.”
“That’s what he thought.”
My head spun.
“Who switched them?”
“Kessler.”
“Why?”
“To hide the strongest responder.”
“What does that mean?”
Voss looked toward Maya.
“H-04 had an abnormal result.”
“What result?”
“She carried the marker without inflammation.”
“And?”
“She adapted.”
“To what?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“To all three implants.”
Dr. Shah had found three.
I stopped breathing.
“Why would that matter?”
“Because the other girls rejected them.”
Laura whispered:
“Rejected how?”
“Scarring. infection. tissue damage.”
“The masses.”
“Sometimes.”
I looked at Maya.
Her pain.
Her nausea.
The growing mass.
“Then she isn’t adapting anymore.”
Voss’s expression changed.
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
He moved toward the glass.
Security blocked him.
“She may be entering checkpoint five.”
I almost screamed.
“You said there were six.”
“Yes.”
“What happens at five?”
Voss looked at Laura.
Then me.
“Secondary tissue growth.”
“What kind?”
He did not answer.
Dr. Lawson stepped closer.
“What tissue?”
Voss whispered:
“Embryonic.”
The hallway went silent.
Maya was fifteen.
The pregnancy test.
The ovarian mass.
The hormone.
I felt sick.
“Are you saying they implanted embryos in infants?”
“No.”
“Then explain.”
Voss looked trapped.
“The program involved primitive reproductive tissue.”
“From where?”
He didn’t answer.
“FROM WHERE?”
Laura suddenly whispered:
“From the first girls.”
Voss closed his eyes.
That was answer enough.
The first cohort.
Twelve girls.
Some died.
Others scattered.
Their tissue used in later children.
I wanted to vomit.
Dr. Lawson said:
“This is criminal human experimentation.”
Voss laughed bitterly.
“You think?”
Security moved closer.
“Police are on their way.”
Voss looked at me.
“Then listen quickly.”
“Why?”
“Because Robert isn’t missing.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
“He called me from the hospital basement.”
“When?”
“After you spoke.”
“You said they found him.”
“No.”
“He said they found him.”
I stopped breathing.
“Who is ‘they’?”
Voss looked toward the elevator.
“The people who restarted Hera.”
Laura went pale.
“Restarted?”
“It never really ended.”
The elevator chimed.
Everyone turned.
Three people stepped out wearing hospital scrubs.
One man.
Two women.
No badges.
The security officer raised his hand.
“Stop there.”
They stopped.
The man looked directly at Voss.
“You should have stayed dead.”
Voss whispered:
“Run.”
Then the lights went out again.
Someone screamed.
A gunshot cracked.
Glass shattered.
I dropped.
Dr. Lawson dragged me behind the nurses’ station.
Laura screamed Maya’s name.
Emergency lights flickered on.
Voss was on the floor.
Blood spread beneath his shoulder.
The three strangers were gone.
Security shouted into radios.
The recovery-room door stood open.
I looked through the glass.
Maya’s bed was empty.
For one second, my brain refused to understand.
Then I screamed.
“MAYA!”
I ran inside.
Blanket on the floor.
IV tubing torn loose.
A spot of blood near the bed.
Nothing else.
Laura grabbed the doorway.
“No.”
Dr. Lawson shouted:
“LOCK DOWN THE HOSPITAL!”
I turned toward Voss.
He was conscious.
Barely.
“Where would they take her?”
His lips moved.
I knelt.
“WHERE?”
He whispered:
“Checkpoint site.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know something.”
His eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
“Red ledger.”
“What about it?”
“Robert hid the location in the transfers.”
“Where’s the ledger?”
Voss coughed.
Then smiled weakly.
“Ask your daughter.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“Maya already found it.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
The clinic.
“What did she do with it?”
Voss’s eyes began to close.
“Robert didn’t take her to the clinic because she was sick.”
I grabbed his hand.
“Then why?”
“Because she stole the ledger.”
My breath stopped.
“Maya?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
His eyes closed.
I shook him.
“WHERE?”
He whispered:
“In the place she stopped taking pictures.”
Then he lost consciousness.
I stood.
The place she stopped taking pictures.
Maya used to photograph sunsets.
The mailbox.
The garage.
The old railroad bridge.
Every afternoon.
Until weeks ago.
Then I remembered.
One night she came home late.
Mud on her shoes.
Robert furious.
He told me she had been “wandering.”
Maya said she had dropped her camera.
I had believed both of them.
I pulled out my phone.
Opened Maya’s shared photo album.
Scroll.
Scroll.
Scroll.
Then I found the last sunset photograph she had taken.
Three weeks earlier.
Not our mailbox.
Not the garage.
An abandoned brick building beside the old railroad line.
The caption field contained only one thing:
HERA.
My blood turned cold.
Dr. Lawson looked over my shoulder.
“You know that place?”
I nodded.
“It’s fifteen minutes away.”
Laura whispered:
“That’s not possible.”
“What?”
She pointed at the photograph.
“I know that building.”
“How?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“That’s where I gave birth.”
TO BE CONTINUED — PART 4
