Chapter 4 - Someone Had Been Studying My Family Too—and the Date on the First File Was From the Year I Was BornThe file began with my birth.
Then my mother's medical records.
My father's employment.
My childhood illnesses.
My education.
My medical school applications.
Everything.
Every page had the same symbol.
A black circle containing a white line.
I had seen it once before.
In my father's old desk.
I had never understood what it meant.
Now I did.
It belonged to Adrian Moretti's research organization.
My stomach turned.
“Why would they monitor me?”
Vincent had no answer.
His wife looked at me.
“Your mother worked for them.”
“What?”
She nodded.
“Years ago.”
“My mother was a nurse.”
“At one of their clinics.”
“No.”
“Sarah.”
I shook my head.
“My mother worked in a public hospital.”
“Not only there.”
She handed me another file.
My mother's signature appeared on research consent forms.
But something was wrong.
The signatures were identical.
Too identical.
Forged.
My mother had refused to participate.
That meant someone had used her name.
Why?
Because they needed access to my medical records.
I stared at my mother's birth date.
It matched the first experimental trial.
A study involving children.
I found my own name.
Participant 17.
I was six months old.
I had been enrolled without my parents' knowledge.
I felt sick.
“What did they test?”
The wife's voice was quiet.
“Your immunity.”
“Why?”
“Because Adrian believed certain families had inherited resistance to biological compounds.”
That explained the poisoning.
They had been studying me before I could remember.
Luca might have been another generation.
I looked toward him through the glass.
“What about him?”
“He inherited something from you.”
Vincent stared.
“What?”
The wife handed him another report.
A genetic marker.
Shared by Luca.
Shared by me.
Not enough to make him sick.
But enough to make him valuable.
That was why Adrian had kept him monitored.
I looked at Vincent.
“Your father knew Luca was genetically connected to me.”
“Yes.”
“And he knew I'd work in medicine.”
“Yes.”
“Then bringing Luca here wasn't random.”
Vincent shook his head.
“No.”
“Someone wanted me to find him.”
He stared.
“Why?”
“Because I could recognize the signs.”
My first instinct had been the smell.
The cast.
The necrotic tissue.
The device.
Someone had predicted that I'd identify the problem.
That meant the entire ER situation might have been staged.
I looked around the hospital.
Someone had known I'd be on shift.
Someone had known Luca would arrive.
Someone wanted me to remove the device.
Why?
Then my phone rang.
The unknown voice returned.
“You found the file.”
I froze.
“How do you know?”
“We know everything.”
“Who are you?”
“You've been asking the wrong question.”
“What question should I ask?”
“Why did your mother disappear?”
The call ended.
My heart stopped.
My mother had died when I was fifteen.
Or so I believed.
Then Vincent's wife whispered:
“Sarah…”
I turned.
May you like
“She didn't disappear.”
“She was murdered.”
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