Chapter 9 - The Price of Rachel's Baby)
Mercer Family Services had never provided services to any family.
The company existed for sixteen months. Daniel Cole, using his former surname, opened it three weeks before Rachel was admitted to Evergreen Maternity Home. Bank records obtained by Detective Park showed six large deposits over the following year, each labeled placement or consultation. The money moved into personal accounts within days.
"They sold babies," Ethan said.
Park did not answer immediately. They sat in a conference room at police headquarters, a windowless space with beige walls and a clock that ticked too loudly.
"That is one possibility," she said. "Evergreen called itself a refuge for unmarried mothers. It arranged private adoptions. In that era, oversight was weak, and records were mostly paper. Some adoptions may have been legal. The payments may have been fees."
"My father was a mechanic. Why was he receiving adoption fees?"
"That is the question."
The signature on the deposit slip matched Daniel's driver's license. Another document carried Georgia's name: a notarized consent for the adoption of Rachel's child.
Rachel's signature appeared beneath her mother's.
It was misspelled.
Rachel had signed school records as Rachel A. Cole. On the consent form, the middle name was written Ann instead of Anne, and the final letters in Cole leaned left rather than right. A handwriting specialist gave a preliminary opinion that the signature was probably forged.
The child listed on the form was a girl born October 20, 1999.
No name. No death certificate. No burial.
Rachel's baby had almost certainly survived.
Ethan read the form twice. "I have a niece."
"You may," Park said. "The receiving parents' names are sealed. The court will need to authorize access."
Kristin rested one hand over her own stomach. The baby moved too faintly for her to be sure, like the brush of a fingertip from inside.
"Georgia said the baby died," she said.
"Georgia has said several incompatible things."
"Why lock Rachel in the shed?" Ethan asked. "Why not just send her to the maternity home?"
"Maybe she refused the adoption. Maybe she threatened to expose the payments."
Park slid a photograph across the table. It had been recovered from Vale's former office storage unit that morning.
Six pregnant young women stood on the steps of Evergreen. Rachel was the third from the left. Georgia stood behind her with one hand gripping her shoulder.
On the back, someone had written Batch C, October 1999.
Kristin turned the photograph facedown.
"How many children?"
"We don't know."
"How many mothers disappeared?"
Park's silence answered.
The investigation widened. State authorities joined the search for Vale. Old Evergreen employees were interviewed. Former residents came forward with accounts of coercion, altered records, and infants taken before consent was given. Daniel Cole's death in a construction accident was reexamined, though nothing initially suggested it had been staged.
Georgia remained missing.
For a week, Ethan and Kristin lived beneath cameras and double locks. A patrol car passed every few hours. Ethan took leave from work, but he could not stop moving. He repaired the porch rail, reinforced the shed door, and installed brighter lights along the drainage path.
"You're building a fortress," Kristin said one afternoon.
"I'm fixing things."
"Those are not always the same."
He set down the drill. "If she comes back, I need to be ready."
"I need you to sleep."
He had dark circles beneath his eyes. She knew he woke whenever the house settled or a branch touched a window.
"I keep thinking about Rachel," he said. "She was in that shed, and I was twenty feet away."
"You brought her water."
"I didn't unlock the door."
"You were eight."
"I know. It doesn't change the picture in my head."
Kristin took his hand and placed it against the slight curve of her stomach.
"Then change what happens in the next picture. Be here."
He closed his eyes. After a moment, the baby moved. Ethan's breath caught.
That night, he slept for six hours.
In the morning, Kristin drove alone to a bookkeeping client ten minutes away. She checked the back seat before entering the car, locked the doors immediately, and called Ethan from the parking lot when she arrived. The precautions felt excessive until she returned two hours later.
An envelope had been tucked beneath her windshield wiper.
Inside was a photograph of Kristin asleep in her own bed.
The angle was from the bedroom doorway.
May you like
On the back, in Georgia's handwriting, were seven words.
You never changed the lock that matters.
