I turned toward her.
“What didn't you know?”
Mara continued.
“That night, three male infants were admitted to the same neonatal unit within four hours.”
“So?”
“One of their electronic files was altered.”
I stared at her.
“Whose?”
“Owen's.”
Silence.
I looked at my son.
He was sitting on the couch now, drawing again because five-year-olds have the remarkable ability to return to crayons while adults discover their lives may be lies.
“Altered how?”
“His identification number changed.”
“Why?”
“I didn't know then.”
“And now?”
Mara looked toward the hidden chamber.
“Now I know someone had been doing it for years.”
Natalie sat down.
“My father was chairman of the hospital foundation at the time.”
I stared at her.
“You think Malcolm altered infant records?”
“I know he had access.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
Natalie looked miserable.
“But my mother suspected it.”
I froze.
Natalie's mother, Diane Voss, had supposedly died when Natalie was thirteen.
A stroke.
That was the story I had heard for twelve years.
“What does your mother have to do with this?”
Natalie stared at the floor.
“She didn't die from a stroke.”
Another lie.
I felt something in me harden.
“What happened?”
“I don't know.”
“You've told me for twelve years that your mother died.”
“That's what my father told everyone.”
“Did you see a body?”
Natalie shook her head.
“There was a closed funeral.”
I looked at Mara.
She said quietly, “Diane discovered irregularities in St. Catherine's birth records.”
“What irregularities?”
“Children whose original files disappeared.”
“What happened to them?”
Mara's answer came slowly.
“They went home with the wrong families.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Some were private adoptions disguised as ordinary births.”
My stomach turned.
“You're talking about trafficking babies.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“In other cases, children were used to manipulate inheritances, custody arrangements, or family trusts.”
That sounded insane.
I wanted it to be insane.
Then my son walked into the hallway carrying a toy dinosaur.
He looked into the hidden room.
“Is that where the button goes?”
I crouched.
“Yes.”
He pointed toward the cot.
“There’s something shiny under there.”
Mara turned sharply.
“What?”
Owen crawled beneath the edge before I could stop him.
He reached underneath and pulled out a small brass key.
A metal tag hung from it.
Mara stared at it as though Owen had pulled a gun from beneath the bed.
“Where did you get that?”
“Under there.”
Natalie whispered, “Oh my God.”
“What does it open?”
Mara looked at Natalie.
Natalie slowly shook her head.
I stood.
“I'm finished watching the two of you communicate without me.”
Mara took a breath.
“Your mother-in-law left that key.”
“My dead mother-in-law?”
“We don't know that she's dead.”
That was the moment the floor seemed to disappear beneath me.
“What?”
Natalie began crying.
Mara spoke before she could.
“Diane Voss vanished fourteen years ago.”
“She died.”
“No.”