Chapter 12 - Rebecca's Choice
The search of Saint Catherine's began at dawn.
This time, I wasn't allowed inside.
I waited beyond the police barrier with Rebecca and Aaron Reed.
Rebecca stood beside me in an old blue coat.
She looked exhausted.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked:
“Why didn't you tell me about the names in the wall?”
She closed her eyes.
“I was afraid they'd been destroyed.”
“That wasn't what I asked.”
She looked at me.
“I thought if I told the police everything, they'd arrest me before I could help find the children.”
I stared.
“So you kept evidence from them?”
“Yes.”
“Mom.”
Her face crumpled.
“I know.”
I stepped away.
“You keep saying you were protecting us, but every time you hide something, somebody else gets hurt.”
Rebecca started crying.
“I didn't know what to do.”
I looked toward the old building.
“Tell the truth.”
She swallowed.
“All of it.”
I turned back.
“Even the parts that make you look terrible.”
She nodded.
For a long time, she said nothing.
Then she spoke.
“There was a little girl named Emily.”
My heart tightened.
“Emily Lawson?”
Rebecca nodded.
“She was five when they took her.”
“I know.”
“She had a mother who came to Saint Catherine's every week asking to see her.”
I stared.
“What happened?”
“Eleanor told me the mother had lost custody.”
“Was that true?”
“No.”
My stomach twisted.
Rebecca began crying.
“I knew the paperwork was wrong. But Eleanor told me if I challenged it, they'd take you.”
I stared at her.
“And you signed anyway.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Emily.
The girl who'd spent thirty years looking for her family.
The woman murdered because she'd uncovered the truth.
I felt something break.
“You helped take her from her mother.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Yes.”
I stepped back.
For months, I'd imagined finding my mother alive.
I'd imagined hugging her.
Crying.
Asking where she'd been.
I'd never imagined having to look at her and see somebody who'd helped destroy another family.
Rebecca reached for me.
I pulled away.
“Grace—”
“No.”
She lowered her hand.
“I won't ask you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
I wiped my eyes.
“Because I don't know if I can.”
She nodded.
“I understand.”
I looked toward the building.
“Then help us find the rest.”
At 10:42 a.m., investigators opened the infirmary wall.
Behind a loose section of plaster was a metal compartment.
Inside were three waterproof packages.
One contained copies of the original intake forms.
The second contained handwritten notes from parents.
The third held photographs.
Dozens of photographs.
Children standing beside mothers.
Children holding birth certificates.
Children whose names had later been erased.
The records identified thirty-seven children involved in the second network.
Some had been adopted illegally.
Others had been moved into private institutions.
Several were now adults.
For the first time, investigators could connect original names to later identities through documentation rather than relying only on testimony.
I watched Brooks emerge from the building carrying an evidence case.
Her face was serious.
But her eyes were bright.
“We found them.”
I couldn't speak.
Rebecca covered her mouth.
Brooks looked at her.
“You preserved their names.”
Rebecca began crying.
“I tried.”
I stared at the case.
Somewhere inside were the names of children who'd spent their lives believing they had been unwanted.
Now they might learn that their parents had searched for them.
That they hadn't been abandoned.
That somebody had stolen them.
It wouldn't restore the years.
But it would change what those years meant.
That afternoon, Rebecca gave a full formal statement.
She admitted signing the fraudulent transfers.
She described the threats.
The payments.
The confinement.
She identified the documents she'd copied and explained how she'd hidden them.
She didn't ask for immunity.
She didn't ask investigators to ignore her role.
She told them what she'd done.
And why.
When she finished, she looked at me through the interview room window.
I didn't smile.
I didn't wave.
But I stayed.
For the first time, my mother had chosen the truth even though it might cost her something.
At 6:14 p.m., Nathan's attorney called Donovan.
Nathan wanted to negotiate.
He claimed he could identify everyone involved in the second network.
In exchange, he wanted immunity from prosecution for Daniel's death and the financial crimes.
Donovan refused the proposed terms.
Nathan's attorney then offered something else.
The location of Charles Whitmore.
But only if Grace Miller agreed to meet Nathan.
Alone.
I looked at Brooks.
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You're learning.”
I almost smiled.
Then Nathan sent a photograph.
Charles Whitmore lying in a hospital bed.
A handwritten note rested on his chest.
ASK GRACE ABOUT THE LETTER HER HUSBAND NEVER SENT.
My stomach tightened.
Daniel's letter.
The one we'd found inside Lily's stuffed rabbit.
Nathan knew about it.
But how?
Brooks examined the photograph.
Then she noticed something near the bedside table.
A medical supply label.
It carried the name of a facility outside Albany.
Within hours, investigators located the building.
Charles was there.
Alive.
Under private medical supervision.
But the archive's original access credentials were missing.
May you like
Nathan had moved them.
And the records transfer was less than twenty-four hours away.
