Chapter 9 - The Woman Who Died Twice
Evelyn Brooks called me at 9:17 that night.
I was sitting in a secure guest room when the unfamiliar number appeared on my phone.
I almost ignored it.
Then a message arrived.
REMEMBER THE FENCE.
I answered immediately.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then a woman's voice.
"Amara?"
My heart pounded.
"Evelyn?"
She began crying.
Not loudly.
Just a small, broken sound.
I closed my eyes.
"Oh, my God."
"Don't say my name."
"Where are you?"
"I can't tell you."
"Are you hurt?"
A pause.
"Yes."
I stood.
"Listen to me. I can connect you with investigators who can help."
"No police."
"Evelyn—"
"Not until you know."
"Know what?"
She took a shaky breath.
"The sheriff is afraid of you."
"Why?"
"Because you remember things you don't know you remember."
I sat down again.
"The blue book."
Silence.
Then:
"You found your mother's tape."
"Yes."
"She was brave."
Tears filled my eyes.
"She thought you were safe."
"I was."
"Then what happened?"
Evelyn inhaled sharply.
"They found me when I was twenty."
"Who?"
"The same people."
I waited.
"They made me sign papers. New name. New identity. They told me if I refused, the woman who raised me would die."
"Did she?"
Evelyn didn't answer.
I knew.
My stomach twisted.
"Where have you been?"
"Working for them."
The words struck harder than I expected.
"Doing what?"
"Records. Transportation schedules. Finding names they wanted erased."
"Evelyn."
"I hated myself."
I closed my eyes.
"You're talking to me now."
"Because it changed."
"What changed?"
"Children started disappearing again."
I gripped the phone.
"How many?"
"More than the records show."
"Are they alive?"
"Some."
My voice trembled.
"Where?"
"I don't know every location."
"Tell me what you do know."
She hesitated.
"There are three houses. They call them centers."
"Who runs them?"
"Different companies. Same people."
"Daniel Rourke?"
A sharp intake of breath.
"Don't trust Daniel."
"Is he the Director?"
"No."
I leaned forward.
"Then who?"
Before she answered, I heard footsteps.
A door creaked.
Evelyn whispered:
"Somebody's here."
"Get somewhere safe."
"I have to go."
"Evelyn, please."
Her voice broke.
"Your mother saved me from a fire, Amara. But she didn't know what was inside the book."
"What was inside?"
"Not just children's names."
A heavy knock echoed through the phone.
Evelyn gasped.
"Amara."
"I'm here."
"The book proves who ordered the transfers."
"Who?"
Another knock.
Then a man's voice in the background.
"Evelyn. Open the door."
She whispered:
"The Director is someone you know."
The line went dead.
I immediately called Naomi.
She requested that investigators attempt to trace the call through lawful emergency procedures.
While she worked, I opened my mother's notebook again.
I read every name.
Every date.
Every handwritten annotation.
I searched for someone familiar.
Then I found an entry I hadn't noticed.
October 12, 1997 — Visitor: Helena M.
My stomach tightened.
Helena.
Helen?
It could have meant anyone.
But beneath the entry was a note.
Young attorney. Said she could help. Left with copies of the adoption records.
I stared.
Chief Judge Helen Mercer had practiced law in Georgia before her federal appointment.
She was roughly thirty-two in 1997.
Could she have been involved?
I hated the question.
Helen had mentored me.
Supported my nomination.
Sat beside me when my mother died.
She was one of the people I trusted most.
But the facts did not care whom I loved.
I looked at the name again.
Helena M.
A possibility.
Not proof.
I dialed Helen.
She answered quickly.
"Amara?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Were you ever involved with Mercy House?"
Silence.
Too long.
"Helen?"
She sighed.
"Why?"
My heart sank.
"Because I found a record."
"What record?"
"My mother's."
Another pause.
Then she said:
"We need to talk in person."
My voice hardened.
"Answer the question."
"Yes."
I closed my eyes.
Helen continued.
"I represented a young woman who claimed children were being transferred illegally."
"Evelyn?"
"No."
"Who?"
"Her name was Rebecca Hale."
I looked toward the window.
"What happened to her?"
Helen's voice dropped.
"She disappeared before she could testify."
"Did you tell anyone?"
"I tried."
"Who stopped you?"
A long silence.
Then:
"Judge Franklin Rourke."
My stomach tightened.
Helen whispered:
"And Amara, I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"Franklin Rourke wasn't the Director."
I felt cold.
"Then who was?"
Helen's voice broke.
"Your father knew."
I stopped breathing.
"My father?"
"Yes."
"And there's something you need to know about the night Mercy House burned."
I could barely speak.
"Tell me."
Helen inhaled.
"Your father wasn't repairing farm equipment that night."
May you like
She paused.
"He was driving the van that carried the children out."
