Chapter 4 - The Fire
“The night Rachel disappeared…”
Boone's voice trembled.
“…you were the nurse who signed her out.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
The word came out automatically.
“I've never signed out a patient named Rachel Mercer.”
“You did.”
“I would remember.”
“You don't.”
“What does that mean?”
Boone stepped closer.
“It means someone made sure you wouldn't.”
The secure-room door suddenly rattled.
I jumped.
Boone raised his weapon.
“Stay behind me.”
A voice came through the door.
“Claire?”
I recognized it.
Dr. Grant.
I opened the door.
Melissa rushed inside.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
She looked at Boone.
Then at the weapon.
Her face hardened.
“What the hell is going on?”
Before I could answer, every light in the hospital came back on.
The emergency alarm stopped.
The hallway was empty.
No intruder.
No gunman.
No woman.
Nothing.
Except a single black envelope lying on the floor.
Boone stared at it.
“Don't touch it.”
I crouched anyway.
The envelope had my name on it.
Not Claire.
My full name.
CLAIRE ELLISON PARK.
I hadn't seen my middle name written like that in years.
I opened it.
Inside was a newspaper clipping.
The headline made my knees weak.
LOCAL HOSPITAL FIRE CLAIMS TWO LIVES.
The date was eleven years ago.
I read the article.
A small electrical fire had started in an unused maternity wing at Riverbend.
Two people were presumed dead.
One was an unidentified woman.
The other was a hospital security contractor.
I looked at the photograph.
It was grainy.
But I recognized the woman.
Rachel.
My fingers went numb.
There was something else inside the envelope.
A handwritten note.
You didn't sign her out. You signed her away.
I looked at Boone.
“What does that mean?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“Then why do you look like you already knew?”
“Because I've seen that handwriting before.”
“Whose?”
He looked at the note.
“Rachel's.”
I stopped breathing.
“You said Rachel was dead.”
“I said that's what I was told.”
I turned toward Melissa.
“Do you remember this fire?”
She stared at the article.
Then slowly shook her head.
“I wasn't working here yet.”
I looked at the date.
I had been.
“I was.”
Boone nodded.
“Exactly.”
I walked toward the computer.
I searched the hospital archives.
Nothing.
No Rachel Mercer.
No fire report.
No maternity records.
Nothing.
Then I searched my own employee history.
My hands froze.
There was a gap.
Six months.
Six months of my employment history had been deleted.
“What happened during those six months?”
Boone came behind me.
“You tell me.”
I stared at the screen.
“I don't remember.”
Then Emma cried.
We both turned.
Her monitor began flashing.
Heart rate rising.
Oxygen dropping.
I rushed to her.
“Emma.”
Her tiny face twisted.
I reached into the incubator.
The moment my fingers touched her hand, she calmed.
Then something fell from beneath her blanket.
A tiny silver pendant.
I picked it up.
There was a photograph inside.
Rachel.
And beside her—
me.
I dropped it.
Melissa gasped.
“I've never seen that.”
Neither had I.
But I knew the woman standing beside Rachel.
I knew her because she was me.
Eleven years younger.
Standing in the exact same maternity ward.
Holding Baby Emma.
And smiling.
I whispered,
“Why don't I remember this?”
Boone picked up the pendant.
His face went white.
“Because someone didn't just erase the records.”
May you like
He looked at me.
“They erased you.”
