I couldn’t speak.
Maya took the bank receipt from my hand and examined it.
“Are you sure that’s your wife’s signature?”
I nodded.
“I’ve seen it thousands of times.”
The payment was unmistakable.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
To Rebecca Miller.
“What did Jessica pay her for?”
Maya shook her head.
“We need to ask Rebecca.”
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked through the documents again.
There were phone numbers, addresses, medical records, and old newspaper clippings.
One article caught my attention.
It was dated twenty-eight years earlier.
The headline read:
LOCAL HOSPITAL INVESTIGATES RECORDING ERROR INVOLVING TWO NEWBORNS
I read the article twice.
Two babies had been born within eleven minutes of each other.
One belonged to the Hayes family.
The other belonged to the Miller family.
A temporary identification error had supposedly occurred.
The hospital had corrected it before either family left.
At least, that’s what the official report claimed.
But my father had written something in the margin.
“The hospital corrected the paperwork, not the truth.”
I looked at Maya.
“What happened to the Miller family?”
She opened another folder.
“The mother died several years later.”
“And the father?”
“Left Oregon.”
“Rebecca?”
“Stayed in the area for a while. Then disappeared.”
I looked at the photograph of Jessica and Rebecca again.
“How did my wife find her?”
“That is what we need to know.”
My phone buzzed.
Jessica.
I didn’t answer.
She called again.
Then sent a message.
Please come home. We need to talk.
I typed:
How do you know Rebecca Miller?
The typing indicator appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
I can explain.
I replied:
Then explain.
No answer.
Maya looked at me.
“Don’t tell her where you are.”
“I won’t.”
We searched through the remaining files.
Near midnight, we found an address.
A small house outside Salem.
The property records showed the house belonged to a woman named Rebecca Miller.
I drove there the next morning.
Maya came with me.
The house was old, with peeling white paint and a porch that sagged slightly toward the yard.
I knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
A curtain moved.
Then an elderly woman opened the door.
She looked at me.
Her face went completely pale.
“You’re Ethan.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“You know me?”
She looked past me toward Maya.
Then whispered:
“Arthur finally told you.”
I stepped forward.
“What happened the night I was born?”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“I was afraid this day would come.”
“Did you know my wife?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She found me.”
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did she want?”
Rebecca looked toward the street.
“Come inside.”
Her living room smelled like old books and coffee.
She sat slowly.
I remained standing.
“Jessica came here because she had found my name in an old hospital record.”
“What record?”
“One that should never have existed.”
“What did she ask you?”
Rebecca looked directly at me.
“She asked whether your father had ever told you the truth.”
“What truth?”
Rebecca’s voice became barely audible.
“You were not supposed to leave the hospital with Arthur.”
I felt like the room tilted.
“What?”
She continued.
“The night you were born, there was confusion in the nursery. Two babies. Two families. Two identification bracelets.”
“So I was switched?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No.”
I waited.
“You were intentionally moved.”
“By whom?”
Rebecca’s hands began trembling.
“I don’t know.”
“You were there.”
“I was a nurse, not a detective.”
“You knew something.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked down.
“Your biological mother wasn’t Elaine Hayes.”
I couldn’t move.
“Who was she?”
Rebecca swallowed.
“Margaret Miller.”
My head spun.
“The Miller family?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
For years I’d believed Elaine Hayes was my mother.
She had died when I was twelve.
I remembered her perfume.
Her laugh.
The way she used to sing while cooking.
My father had never given me a reason to doubt that she was my mother.
“Then why did I grow up with Arthur?”
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because Arthur knew.”
“What did he know?”
“That you were Margaret’s son.”
I stared at her.
“And he raised me anyway?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Because Margaret asked him to.”
That made no sense.
“Why would she give me away?”
“She didn’t.”
Silence.
Rebecca stood and walked toward a cabinet.
She removed a small wooden box.
Inside was an old cassette tape.
“I kept this for twenty-eight years.”
“What is it?”
“Your mother’s voice.”
My hands shook.
“Margaret?”
Rebecca nodded.
“She recorded a message the night you were born.”
I stared at the cassette.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of the people who wanted the truth buried.”
“Who?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Jessica’s family.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“My wife’s family?”
Rebecca nodded.
“Her father was the hospital administrator.”
I remembered Jessica’s father.
Richard Carter.
He had died years before we married.
He had always been charming.
Successful.
Generous.
I’d met him only a handful of times.
But now another memory surfaced.
Jessica once told me her father had been responsible for “cleaning up” an old hospital scandal.
I had assumed she meant paperwork.
Rebecca continued.
“Your father discovered the truth years later. He confronted Richard.”
“What happened?”
“Richard threatened him.”
“With what?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“With taking you away.”
My throat tightened.
“Arthur stayed silent to protect me.”
“Yes.”
“Then why investigate now?”
Rebecca’s expression changed.
“Because he discovered Richard had left something behind.”
“What?”
“A second set of records.”
“Where?”
Rebecca pointed toward the cassette.
“Your mother knew there was evidence.”
I picked up the cassette.
“Where is it?”
Rebecca whispered:
“Inside the hospital archives.”
I stared at her.
“They destroyed those archives years ago.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“They told everyone they did.”
“Where are they?”
Rebecca looked toward the window.
“Ask Jessica.”
I felt anger rising.
“Why would she know?”
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because her father didn’t act alone.”
I froze.
“Who helped him?”
Rebecca didn’t answer.
Instead, she said something that chilled me.
“The person who signed the original record wasn’t Richard Carter.”
“Then who?”
Rebecca looked directly into my eyes.
“Your wife.”
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