Coverage was restored.
At the time, I thought nothing of it beyond bureaucratic incompetence.
“You think that was connected?”
“I knew it was.”
“How?”
“Because the letter predicted it.”
My mouth went dry.
Taryn whispered, “Dad…”
I raised a hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Colette started crying again.
“Because you would have fought.”
“Damn right I would have.”
“That was exactly why.”
My anger surged.
“So instead you abandoned us?”
“I thought if I disappeared, they would stop.”
“Who is they?”
“I didn’t know.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“I KNOW!”
It was the first time she shouted.
Then her voice collapsed.
“I know, Emmett.”
Silence stretched between us.
When she spoke again, she sounded exhausted.
“I convinced myself leaving was temporary. That I would investigate from a distance. That once I knew who was responsible, I would come home.”
“Twelve years isn’t temporary.”
“I was ashamed.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No.”
“You could have called.”
“Yes.”
“You could have written.”
“Yes.”
“You could have come back when they were eight. Ten. Twelve. Sixteen.”
“Yes.”
Every answer made me angrier.
“I don’t care what scared you, Colette. You missed their entire childhood.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying—”
“I have cancer.”
The words cut through me.
I said nothing.
Brielle’s hand went rigid beneath mine.
Taryn stared at the phone.
Colette continued quietly.
“Pancreatic. Stage four.”
My anger didn’t disappear.
But it changed shape.
“Evelyn knows?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Seven months.”
“And that’s why she contacted the girls?”
“No.”
Colette inhaled unevenly.
“I asked her not to.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t deserve to reappear just because I was dying.”
Brielle’s eyes filled with tears.
Taryn turned away.
I hated Colette for that.
Even now, twelve years later, she could hurt them simply by existing.
“Then why call?”
“Because Evelyn found the archive.”
My attention sharpened.
“What archive?”
“The missing files.”
I looked at the folder.
“Where?”
“In storage belonging to a medical research foundation that closed eight years ago.”
My heart pounded.
“What was in them?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
“There were files on thirty-one children.”
Brielle frowned.
“Thirty-one?”
“All with spinal conditions.”
I stared at the phone.
“What does that have to do with Brielle and Taryn?”
“They were part of a research cohort.”
The word meant little to me.
“What kind of cohort?”
“Children being evaluated for a nerve-regeneration study.”
Taryn looked stunned.
“We were in a study?”
“Candidates,” Colette corrected.
“But several children were removed from the program before treatment began.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at Brielle.
“How many?”
Colette hesitated.
“Eleven.”
“And the girls?”
“Two of the eleven.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened to the others?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because every time I tried to find out, I hit a wall.”
I turned toward the window.
Outside, our street looked exactly as it had an hour earlier.
A neighbor washing his truck.
A child riding a bicycle.
Sunlight flashing across the pavement.
Nothing in the world looked different.
Yet my daughters’ entire medical history had just shifted beneath my feet.
“When can we see these files?”
Colette said nothing.
“Colette?”
“Evelyn has copies.”
“Good.”
“But there’s something else.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“One file wasn’t stored with the others.”
“Whose?”
She hesitated.
“Taryn’s.”
Taryn’s face changed.
“My file?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
Brielle immediately took her sister’s hand.
I felt something primal rise inside me.
“What exactly was missing?”
“Her early imaging.”
I stepped closer to Taryn.
“All of it?”
“Almost.”
“Why hers and not Brielle’s?”
“That’s what Evelyn has been trying to determine.”
Taryn looked down at her legs.
For the first time that morning, I saw fear replace excitement.
I crouched beside her.
“Hey.”
She looked at me.
“Whatever this is, we handle it together.”
She tried to smile.
“What if something was wrong with me that they never told you?”
“Then we find out.”
“What if—”
“We find out.”
I took her hand.
“You hear me?”
She nodded.
Brielle wiped her cheek.
Then Colette spoke again.
“There’s one more reason I called today.”
I stood.
“What?”
“Evelyn believes Taryn’s missing scans may still exist.”
“Where?”
“In a private archive belonging to Warren Halpern.”
My jaw tightened.
“The doctor?”
“He retired nine years ago.”
“Where does he live?”
“Emmett—”
“Where?”
“I don’t think confronting him is smart.”
“I didn’t ask if it was smart.”
Brielle gave me a look.
“Dad.”
I ignored her.
“Where is he?”
Colette remained silent long enough that I thought she might refuse.
Then she said, “He’s dead.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“Three years ago.”
A strange disappointment hit me.
Not grief.
Something closer to rage losing its target.
“Then the archive belongs to his family?”
“No.”
“Who has it?”
“That’s the problem.”
I waited.
“His files were donated to the Mercer Neurological Foundation.”
Brielle frowned.
“Mercer?”
Colette didn’t answer.
Neither did Evelyn, because she wasn’t there.
But the name hung between us.
Mercer.
Colette’s maiden name.
Evelyn’s surname.
I slowly straightened.
“Your family owned the foundation?”
“My father founded it.”
I stared at the phone.
In twenty years, Colette had barely spoken about her father.
I knew he had died before we met.
I knew he had money.
I knew she hated discussing him.
That was nearly everything.
“What did your father do?”
“He was a neurosurgeon.”
My skin went cold.
“Was he involved with the girls’ treatment?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Colette.”
“No. Not directly.”
“Not directly?”
She started crying again.
“Emmett, my father financed the research program.”
Nobody spoke.
I looked at my daughters.
The entire room seemed to narrow around them.
“So let me understand this,” I said slowly. “Your father funded the study my daughters were candidates for.”
“Yes.”
“And the records saying their condition might improve were changed.”
“Yes.”
“And eleven children were removed from that study.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew there was something wrong twelve years ago.”
“Yes.”
My voice dropped.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Silence.
“Colette.”
“I didn’t find out until later.”
“Find out what?”
Her breathing turned shallow.
“Why the girls were removed.”
Brielle’s fingers tightened around mine.
“Why?” she asked.
Colette didn’t answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was barely audible.
“Because you refused something.”
I stared at the phone.
“I refused what?”
“A consent form.”
“What consent form?”
“You probably don’t remember.”
“I remember every form I ever signed for them.”
“You didn’t sign this one.”
My mind raced backward.
Hospital corridors.
Clipboards.
Consent packets.
Insurance authorizations.
Research questionnaires.