Chapter 3 - THE ROOM WITHOUT WINDOWS
The building in Thomas Blackwood’s photograph no longer belonged to Blackwood Holdings.
At least not officially.
Marcus Reed traced it through four shell corporations before reaching a nonprofit called the Halcyon Institute for Family Advancement.
Emily read the name twice.
“What does that even mean?”
David stood beside her in the kitchen at their townhouse.
“No idea.”
Marcus slid a folder across the table.
“Halcyon owns four medical facilities, two rehabilitation clinics, a private research building, and one residential property in Maryland.”
“Who runs it?”
“Board of trustees.”
“Names?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Eleanor Blackwood is listed as a founding benefactor.”
Emily looked at David.
He did not move.
Marcus continued.
“Dr. Vance is the current medical director.”
“Of course he is.”
“There’s more.”
Marcus opened another page.
“Halcyon receives annual transfers from six trusts connected to Blackwood Holdings.”
“How much?”
“Between nine and fourteen million dollars per year.”
David’s expression hardened.
“I’ve never approved that.”
“They began before you became chairman.”
“Why didn’t they stop afterward?”
“Because the transfers are classified as obligations under a legacy charitable instrument.”
“Signed by?”
“Your father.”
David stared at the page.
“Forgery?”
“I can’t tell.”
Emily leaned over.
“What does Halcyon actually do?”
Marcus looked at her.
“The public filings say maternal health, family preservation, behavioral medicine, and private custodial services.”
Emily instinctively placed a hand over her stomach.
David saw it.
“Explain custodial services.”
Marcus looked uncomfortable.
“I’m still trying to.”
Two days later, David received an envelope with no return address.
Inside was a photograph.
Emily sleeping.
It had been taken through the window of their townhouse.
On the back were six words.
Stop opening doors that protect you.
David did not tell Emily immediately.
That decision lasted twenty minutes.
Then guilt won.
She stared at the photograph.
“When?”
“Last night, maybe.”
“You said the security system was upgraded.”
“It was.”
“So someone bypassed it?”
“Or someone had access.”
Emily looked toward the hallway.
Their housekeeper.
Driver.
Security team.
Maintenance staff.
Every trusted person suddenly looked different.
“We should leave.”
“I agree.”
“Not the city.”
David looked at her.
She swallowed.
“Your family knows every property you own.”
He knew she was right.
They checked into a hotel under another name.
Only Marcus Reed knew where.
At 10:40 p.m., someone knocked.
David approached the door silently.
Emily stood behind the bedroom wall.
“Who is it?”
“Room service.”
“We didn’t order anything.”
Silence.
Then footsteps retreated.
David waited.
Opened the door.
A small silver box sat on the floor.
Inside was the missing brass key.
Emily stared.
“Why return it?”
David lifted the key carefully.
A folded note lay underneath.
The room without windows remembers your father.
The next morning, they drove to Maryland.
Marcus insisted on coming.
The Halcyon property identified from Thomas’s photograph stood behind abandoned factory buildings forty miles outside Baltimore.
The main entrance had been sealed.
David used the brass key on a side door.
It fit.
Inside, dust coated everything.
Old examination rooms.
Empty offices.
Storage cabinets.
A corridor ended at a steel door.
No windows.
David used the key again.
The lock clicked.
Emily remained in the car with a security contractor Marcus trusted.
David and Marcus entered.
The room was smaller than expected.
One desk.
One filing cabinet.
One tape recorder.
And dozens of photographs pinned to the walls.
Pregnant women.
Infants.
Families.
Some photographs dated back thirty years.
Marcus whispered, “Jesus.”
David stepped closer.
Names had been written beneath several images.
Some had red marks.
Some had black circles.
One photograph showed Eleanor holding a newborn baby.
The date was thirty-six years earlier.
David’s birth year.
He took it from the wall.
On the back:
Subject D.B. successfully placed.
David stared.
Marcus said nothing.
A sound came from the corridor.
David turned.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Two men appeared at the far end.
“Move!”
Marcus barely had time to react.
David grabbed him and pulled him into the room.
The first man reached the doorway.
David drove his shoulder into him.
The second raised a metal baton.
Marcus slammed the filing cabinet drawer into the man’s knees.
They fought in the narrow corridor.
One attacker escaped.
The other collapsed after David struck him hard beneath the jaw.
They searched his pockets.
No identification.
Only a disposable phone.
One text message remained on the screen.
DESTROY D.B. FILE FIRST.
David looked back toward the room.
Marcus understood immediately.
“The filing cabinet.”
They pulled every drawer open.
Most contained medical records.
Then David found it.
A thin folder.
D.B.
He opened it.
The first page contained his full name.
David Alexander Blackwood.
Date of birth.
Blood type.
Weight.
Photograph.
Mother:
Unknown.
David stopped breathing.
Marcus whispered, “David…”
Father:
Thomas Blackwood.
Legal maternal assignment:
Eleanor Blackwood.
David read the line again.
And again.
Then he turned the page.
A certificate.
Not his birth certificate.
A private placement record.
The signature at the bottom belonged to Dr. Adrian Vance.
David sat down.
May you like
For thirty-six years, Eleanor Blackwood had called herself his mother.
According to the file, she was not.
