Chapter 6 - What Rachel Knew
Rachel had been dead for seven years.
At least that was what I had believed.
She died when Emma was nine months old.
A car accident on a rainy highway.
A truck crossed the center line.
Rachel's vehicle went through a guardrail.
By the time emergency crews reached her, there was nothing they could do.
That was the story.
I had lived with it for seven years.
I had blamed the weather.
The driver.
Fate.
Myself.
Every ridiculous thing grief allows a man to blame when there is no one left to punish.
Then Detective Harper placed an old photograph in front of me.
My wife.
Pregnant.
Smiling.
And on the back were the words:
SHE KNEW TOO MUCH.
I couldn't speak.
Harper sat across from me in the hospital consultation room.
Brooks stood by the window.
Neither rushed me.
"Where did you find this?"
I finally asked.
"The firehouse."
"Who wrote it?"
"We don't know."
"How old is the photograph?"
"Eight years."
I stared at Rachel's face.
She looked exactly as I remembered her during pregnancy.
Dark hair pulled behind one ear.
One hand resting automatically over her stomach.
That half smile she gave whenever I took too long trying to take a picture.
Except this picture wasn't mine.
Someone else had taken it.
From across the street.
Without us knowing.
"What did Rachel do for work?"
Harper asked.
"You know that already."
"I want to hear it from you."
I looked down at the photograph.
"She was a nurse."
"Where?"
"St. Vincent Pediatric Center."
Brooks glanced at Harper.
"What department?"
"Pediatric cardiology."
Harper leaned forward.
"Did she know Victor Harrington?"
I looked up.
"What?"
"Victor Harrington served as a consulting physician at St. Vincent eight years ago."
My mouth went dry.
"I don't know."
"Did Rachel ever mention him?"
"No."
"Think carefully."
"I said no."
The answer came too quickly.
Because suddenly I did remember something.
Not Victor's name.
A conversation.
Rachel sitting at our kitchen table late one night.
Emma hadn't been born yet.
Rachel had been six months pregnant.
There had been papers spread across the table.
I was exhausted from work.
I barely paid attention.
She had said something about a doctor changing patient records.
I had told her to report it.
She said she couldn't.
I asked why.
She said she needed proof first.
Then we argued because I wanted her to stop bringing hospital problems home.
The memory hit so hard I had to sit back.
Harper saw it immediately.
"You remembered something."
I closed my eyes.
"Rachel was worried about something at work."
"What?"
"Records."
"What kind?"
"I don't know."
"Medical records?"
"Probably."
"Did she mention children?"
"She worked in pediatrics."
"That's not what I'm asking."
I opened my eyes.
"She said some test results didn't match what was being entered into the system."
Harper's expression sharpened.
"Anything else?"
"She said someone was enrolling kids into programs without parents fully understanding them."
Brooks turned from the window.
"Clinical programs?"
"I don't know."
"Drug trials?"
"I don't know."
"Behavioral research?"
"I don't know."
I slammed my palm against the table.
"I didn't listen."
The words came out louder than I intended.
"I was working sixty hours a week."
"We had a baby coming."
"I thought she was stressed."
"I told her to let the hospital deal with it."
Guilt pressed down on me.
"What if she was trying to tell me?"
Harper's voice was measured.
"Don't assume that yet."
"Someone photographed her."
"Someone kept a file on my family."
"Someone wrote that she knew too much."
"What exactly am I supposed to assume?"
Harper didn't answer.
A knock came at the door.
A hospital social worker entered.
"Detective?"
"Yes?"
"Lily is awake."
Harper stood.
"Is she able to talk?"
"Briefly."
The social worker looked toward me.
"She's asking for Emma."
The reunion was arranged carefully.
Two nurses.
A social worker.
Detective Harper.
And me.
Emma was transferred into a wheelchair.
Lily sat upright in another hospital bed.
The moment Emma entered the room, Lily stared at her.
For several seconds...
Neither child spoke.
Then Lily began crying.
Emma's eyes filled too.
"Hi."
Lily wiped her face.
"You're not dead."
Emma shook her head.
"No."
"Diana said..."
"I know."
Emma rolled closer.
"I told my daddy."
Lily looked at me.
Something in her expression broke my heart.
Children shouldn't look at adults that way.
As though deciding whether hope was dangerous.
I crouched beside Emma's chair.
"You don't have to be afraid of me."
Lily looked down.
"Emma said you'd come."
I swallowed.
"She was right."
Lily nodded once.
Then looked at Harper.
"Is Diana in jail?"
"Yes."
"Can she get out?"
"Not tonight."
Lily's hands tightened around the blanket.
"Victor will get her out."
Harper's face remained calm.
"Who is Victor?"
Lily looked surprised.
"You know."
"We want you to tell us."
Lily's voice dropped.
"Her brother."
"Did you meet him?"
A long pause.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Downstairs."
My skin turned cold.
"At Diana's?"
Lily nodded.
"How many times?"
"I don't know."
"What did he do?"
Lily's breathing quickened.
The social worker moved closer.
"You can stop whenever you want."
Lily shook her head.
"He asked questions."
"What questions?"
"About being scared."
Harper kept her tone soft.
"What did he want to know?"
"If I cried."
"If I got sick."
"If I couldn't breathe."
"If I remembered things."
Emma reached across the space between the wheelchair and the bed.
Lily took her hand.
"What else?"
Harper asked.
Lily stared at their joined fingers.
"He had a camera."
My jaw clenched.
"Did he hurt you?"
The social worker looked sharply at me.
Harper raised one hand.
But Lily answered.
"Not like Diana."
"What does that mean?"
"He watched."
The room seemed to shrink.
"He told Diana what to do."
Emma suddenly whispered.
"He came when I was there."
I turned to her.
"What?"
Emma nodded.
"I didn't know his name."
Harper stepped closer.
"You saw Victor Harrington?"
"The man from the hospital posters."
Everyone froze.
There were Victor Harrington posters throughout the pediatric wing.
His charitable foundation had donated equipment there.
His smiling face appeared beside the elevator.
I had walked past it three times that morning.
"What did you see him do?"
Harper asked.
Emma's face tightened with concentration.
"He was in the kitchen."
"At Diana's house?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"He said my medicine was making the results wrong."
My heart stopped.
"What results?"
Emma shrugged.
"He told Diana not to give it to me."
The room went dead silent.
I stood.
"What?"
Harper stepped between me and Emma.
"Daniel."
"My daughter's medication was withheld?"
"We don't know yet."
"She just told you."
"We need dates."
"I don't care about dates."
"If he ordered Diana to withhold cardiac medication, that's attempted murder."
The social worker looked toward the children.
"Mr. Carter."
I immediately lowered my voice.
Emma stared at me.
Scared.
I forced myself to sit again.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"You did nothing wrong."
She nodded.
Harper continued carefully.
"Emma."
"When did the man tell Diana not to give you your medicine?"
Emma thought for several seconds.
"The day with the red balloon."
"What red balloon?"
"Diana had balloons because someone came."
Lily whispered.
"The fundraiser."
Harper turned.
"What fundraiser?"
"Victor came after his charity dinner."
Harper pulled out her phone.
Within thirty seconds she had the date.
Harrington Family Outreach had hosted a donor event nineteen days earlier.
Exactly nineteen days earlier...
Emma had suffered her first unexplained cardiac episode at school.
The doctors had blamed stress.
Now we knew why.
Harper walked into the hall and started making calls.
Search warrant.
Medical records.
Phone records.
Financial records.
Everything connected to Victor Harrington.
I remained with Emma.
But Lily wasn't finished.
She stared at me.
"Mr. Carter?"
"Yes?"
"There's something Diana didn't know I saw."
"What?"
"Victor had pictures."
Harper stopped in the doorway.
"What pictures?"
Lily swallowed.
"Emma's mommy."
The air disappeared from the room.
I couldn't move.
"What did you say?"
Lily looked frightened.
"The lady in the pictures."
"Emma looks like her."
My voice barely came out.
"Where were the pictures?"
"In Victor's bag."
Harper returned slowly.
"How many?"
"A lot."
"What was he doing with them?"
"He was mad."
"Why?"
"Because Diana asked why he still kept them."
My hands began trembling.
"What did he say?"
Lily looked directly at me.
"He said she ruined everything."
I could hear my heartbeat.
"What else?"
"He said they should've made sure the crash killed both of them."
Nobody spoke.
Not Harper.
Not Brooks.
Not the social worker.
Not me.
Because there was only one reason for Victor Harrington to say both.
Rachel hadn't been alone in that car.
Then a memory I had buried for seven years came roaring back.
The official accident report said Rachel was driving alone.
But the morning of the crash...
She had called me from the road.
I had been working.
I let it go to voicemail.
Her message had lasted eleven seconds.
I hadn't listened to it in years.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone.
The voicemail backup was still there.
Rachel Carter.
October 14.
7:31 a.m.
I pressed play.
Static filled the room.
Then Rachel's voice.
Breathless.
Terrified.
"Daniel, listen to me."
"If anything happens..."
A horn blared behind her.
Then she shouted.
"No, stay down!"
The recording ended.
I stared at the phone.
Seven years.
For seven years...
I had heard only my wife's voice.
I had never understood those final three words.
Stay down.
She had been talking to someone else.
Harper took the phone from my shaking hand.
"Who was in that car?"
I looked at Lily.
Then at Emma.
"I don't know."
Brooks' phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed immediately.
"What do you mean he's gone?"
Harper turned.
"Who?"
Brooks lowered the phone.
"Victor Harrington."
"His clinic says he left thirty minutes ago."
"Where did he go?"
"No one knows."
Harper grabbed her coat.
"Put out an alert."
Brooks didn't move.
"There's more."
"What?"
"Security footage shows he wasn't alone."
Harper stared at him.
"Who was with him?"
Brooks swallowed.
"A girl."
My chest tightened.
"What girl?"
"They're pulling the image now."
His phone vibrated.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
He turned it toward us.
The image was grainy.
Victor Harrington stood beside a black SUV.
His hand rested on the shoulder of a teenage girl.
Maybe fourteen.
Maybe fifteen.
She had dark hair.
A pale face.
And around her neck hung a silver heart-shaped necklace.
I knew that necklace.
I had bought it for Rachel the first Christmas after we were married.
My legs nearly gave out.
Because the girl in the photograph looked exactly like my wife.
Harper whispered the question none of us wanted to ask.
May you like
"Daniel..."
"Who is she?"
