Chapter 7
Detective Ramirez confronted Richard with the handwriting.
He denied it.
Then police searched his apartment.
They found three prepaid phones.
One contained photographs of Anna.
Another contained messages with my mother.
The third contained something nobody expected.
Messages to Dr. Mercer.
Richard had been paying him.
The prescription wasn’t a favor for Mom.
It was part of a larger arrangement.
The detectives stopped giving us details after that.
The investigation was moving too fast.
Every answer created another question.
But one thing became clear.
Mom wasn’t acting alone.
Richard had been helping her for months.
Maybe longer.
And Dr. Mercer had provided the medication.
The next morning, Carol Whitmore visited us at the hospital.
She looked exhausted.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Anna asked.
“For not reporting your mother sooner.”
I crossed my arms.
“What happened during those consultations?”
Whitmore sat.
“Linda first came to me saying she was worried about her unborn grandson.”
“What did she claim?”
“That you were depressed.”
Anna gave a bitter laugh.
“She made me depressed.”
Whitmore nodded slowly.
“She showed me recordings of you crying.”
“Recordings she caused.”
“I understand that now.”
“What else?”
“She said Mark was rarely home.”
“That part was true,” I admitted.
“My work required travel.”
“She argued she would become the baby’s most stable caregiver.”
Anna's hand tightened around mine.
Whitmore continued.
“At our third meeting, her tone changed.”
“How?”
“She stopped asking what would happen if you were found unfit.”
Anna stared at her.
“What did she ask instead?”
“What would happen if you were hospitalized.”
The room became silent.
Whitmore looked ashamed.
“She wanted to know whether Mark could temporarily authorize her to care for the baby.”
“I would never do that.”
“She said you would.”
I remembered the forged psychiatric form.
My forged signature.
“She planned to forge authorization.”
“That’s what I now believe.”
Whitmore opened her bag.
“I brought copies of my notes.”
Detective Ramirez had already requested them, but Whitmore wanted us to see one page.
She handed it to me.
Linda asked whether father’s consent remains valid if obtained while he is under extreme emotional distress.
I read it twice.
“What does that mean?”
Whitmore answered quietly.
“I asked the same question.”
“And?”
“She said you become irrational when frightened.”
Anna looked at me.
“She was planning something for both of us.”
Yes.
I finally understood.
This was never only about destroying Anna’s credibility.
Mom wanted Anna hospitalized.
Then she wanted me terrified.
Confused.
Emotionally overwhelmed.
Maybe drugged too.
Then she would put papers in front of me.
And take our son.
“Why?” I whispered.
Nobody answered.
Later, Dad did.
“Because she thinks children belong to her.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“She didn't see you and Claire as people when you were young. You were proof that she mattered.”
“That doesn't explain stealing my baby.”
“To her, it might.”
Dad sat beside the window.
“When Claire started college, your mother called me.”
“You were speaking?”
“Only once.”
“What did she say?”
“She blamed me because Claire was becoming independent.”
I almost laughed.
“She blamed you for Claire going to college?”
“She said I had poisoned her against family.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It didn't then either.”
Anna watched him.
“What happened when Mark got married?”
Dad looked at her.
“She called me again.”
I stared.
“She called you?”
“The night before your wedding.”
“What did she say?”
Dad hesitated.
“She said you were stealing her son.”
Anna’s face changed.
I remembered the wedding.
Mom crying before the ceremony.
Mom insisting she should sit beside me during dinner.
Mom getting angry because Anna and I left the reception fifteen minutes earlier than planned.
I had called it love.
Now I saw possession.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” I asked Dad.
“Would you have listened?”
That silenced me.
No.
I wouldn't have.
That evening, Claire arrived with food.
She hugged Anna before she even looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
Anna held her.
“For what?”
“For believing her.”
Claire cried.
“I repeated things she said about you.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
Anna nodded.
“People stopped inviting me places.”
Claire covered her face.
“I thought you didn't like us.”
“She told everyone I didn't.”
My sister sat down.
“I feel stupid.”
Anna shook her head.
“She’s good at this.”
Then Claire reached into her purse.
“I found something.”
Every time someone said those words, my stomach tightened.
She handed me an old photograph.
Mom stood in a hospital room holding newborn Claire.
Beside her was Richard.
Not Dad.
I turned the photo over.
Written on the back:
Our little girl. 1988.
Claire frowned.
“Mom told me Richard was Dad’s friend.”
Dad stared at the photograph.
His expression went blank.
“Where did you find this?”
“In Mom’s storage locker.”
Dad sat down slowly.
Claire’s voice trembled.
“Dad?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dad, what does this mean?”
I already knew what she was asking.
The room filled with a new kind of silence.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Something deeper.
Dad finally looked at Claire.
“I don’t know.”
Claire began to cry.
“Are you my father?”
“I raised you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t know.”
She stood.
“I need air.”
She left the room.
Dad followed.
I remained beside Anna.
For once, the crisis wasn’t ours.
But ten minutes later, Detective Ramirez called.
She had another discovery.
Richard had finally started talking.
He admitted helping Mom create false evidence.
He admitted withdrawing money.
He admitted paying Dr. Mercer.
But when detectives asked why he was helping her, Richard gave them one answer.
“He said Linda promised him a child.”
My blood ran cold.
“Our child?”
Ramirez was silent.
“Detective.”
“We believe so.”
Anna covered her stomach.
Then Ramirez added, “But Richard says your mother promised something else too.”
“What?”
“That after the baby was taken from Anna, she would finally tell him the truth about the daughter he lost.”
May you like
I looked toward the hallway where Claire had disappeared.
And suddenly I understood why Richard had come back.
