PART 2
Mercer did not answer me.
He stood beside his desk with both hands resting on the back of a leather chair, his eyes fixed on the floor as though the right words might be written there.
I looked again at the note.
*If Rowan ever learns the truth, make sure he never discovers what happened to the third baby.*
The paper had yellowed along the edges. It was not new. It had been folded and unfolded so many times that the center crease had nearly torn through.
“Who wrote this?” I asked.
Mercer swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
I slid the note across the desk. “You were paid to investigate my wife. You had access to the hospital records. You had access to the birth certificate files. You knew Megan was pregnant.”
“I knew she was expecting twins.”
“Then why does this say third baby?”
Mercer lowered himself into the chair.
For the first time since I had entered his office, he looked less like a disgraced investigator and more like an exhausted man who had been carrying something too heavy for too long.
“There were three babies,” he said quietly.
The words moved through me with strange slowness.
Three.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“Start at the beginning.”
Mercer pulled a thin folder from the bottom drawer. Unlike the others, it had no printed label. Only a handwritten date appeared on the cover.
The date was one year ago.
The week Megan had disappeared from my life.
He opened it carefully.
“The delivery was at Franklin Regional,” he said. “Megan was admitted just before dawn. Her pregnancy had been classified as high risk, but she made it to thirty-six weeks. The first two infants were delivered without major complications.”
“Noah and Lucas.”
He nodded.
“The third baby was born eleven minutes later.”
My chest tightened.
“Why wasn’t she on the records?”
Mercer turned one page.
“She was. At first.”
He handed me a photocopy.
The original birth record listed three infants. Two boys and one girl. The girl’s name had not yet been chosen. Under the section marked *mother*, Megan’s full name was written clearly.
Under *father*, mine.
But someone had drawn a line through the third entry in black ink.
Not crossed out accidentally.
Erased deliberately.
The paper had been scanned before the ink was added. The original image showed the full record. The hospital’s current file did not.
“Who altered it?”
“The hospital clerk said she was given a correction request by a private attorney.”
“Whose attorney?”
“Whitmore Family Holdings.”
I stared at him.
Claire’s family owned nursing homes, private clinics, and several charitable foundations throughout Tennessee. Their name appeared on half the buildings in Nashville. People trusted it because it was printed above reception desks and engraved on plaques.
I had trusted it too.
“Why would Claire’s family have access to Megan’s medical records?”
“They shouldn’t have.”
“Mercer.”
He looked at me.
His silence answered before his mouth did.
“Claire arranged it.”
He nodded once.
I turned away from the desk and stared through the office window. Evening had settled over the trees outside. The last pale light rested on the branches, making everything appear calm and distant.
I remembered Claire standing beside me at the courthouse during my divorce.
I remembered her hand on my arm.
*You’re doing the right thing, Rowan.*
I remembered Megan in our foyer, one hand resting over her stomach, begging me to wait until the truth came out.
She had looked frightened.
Not guilty.
Frightened.
At the time, I had mistaken fear for shame.
“What happened to the baby?” I asked.
Mercer took a breath.
“She was born with a minor respiratory complication. Nothing life-threatening, but the doctors wanted to monitor her for several days. Megan was recovering from the delivery, and the boys were being cared for in the nursery.”
“Why wasn’t she with Megan?”
“She was.”
I turned back.
“For a while,” he continued. “Megan held her. There’s a photograph in the file.”
He searched through the folder and pulled out a small image.
It was grainy, taken from a hospital security camera or an old phone. Megan lay in a hospital bed, pale and tired, with one baby tucked against her chest. A nurse stood beside her, holding another.
A third bassinet appeared near the window.
My eyes went to the tiny bundle inside it.
The baby wore a pale yellow cap.
Even in the poor image, I could see the shape of her face.
Small nose.
Round cheeks.
A faint line of blond hair.
My daughter.
I had a daughter.
I pressed two fingers against the photograph, careful not to bend it.
“Where did she go?”
Mercer looked down.
“Two days after the delivery, a representative from a private family placement service arrived.”
“Adoption?”
“That’s what they called it.”
“Did Megan sign anything?”
“No.”
The word landed with such certainty that I looked up.
“No?”
“She was heavily medicated after the birth. She had lost a great deal of blood, though she recovered. The placement service claimed Megan had given verbal consent to temporary medical guardianship.”
“Temporary?”
“That was the language used in the initial paperwork.”
“And then?”
“The document was changed.”
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
“Changed to what?”
“Permanent relinquishment.”
For several seconds, the room was completely silent.
I tried to picture Megan signing away a child.
She would not have done it.
Not knowingly.
Not willingly.
Not after carrying three babies beneath her heart and fighting to protect the two she still had.
“Who took her?” I asked.
Mercer opened another file.
“The record says the baby was placed with a family under a confidential arrangement.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means the agency sealed the name.”
“Then unseal it.”
“I tried.”
The shame in his voice was quiet but unmistakable.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
“Because I was told the child had died.”
My head lifted sharply.
“Who told you?”
“Claire.”
Of course.
Mercer rubbed his forehead. “She said the baby had been too sick to survive. She gave me a hospital note confirming it.”
“A forged note.”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I wanted to.”
That answer surprised me.
He looked at the photograph in my hand.
“Your divorce case was already falling apart. The hotel photographs didn’t line up. The bank transfers had irregularities. Megan’s fingerprints were missing from the necklace box. I knew something was wrong.”
“Then why did you continue?”
“Because Claire offered me enough money to close my firm’s debts.”
The confession came without drama.
No excuse. No attempt to make himself noble.
Just the truth.
“My wife had cancer,” he said. “Treatment had drained everything we had. Claire knew. She paid my creditors directly. She told me the case would end quietly if I made the evidence look complete.”
I said nothing.
“I thought I was helping my family,” Mercer continued. “Instead, I helped destroy yours.”
He reached for a different document.
“There was one thing Claire didn’t know I kept.”
He placed a folded sheet on the desk.
It was a hospital transfer form.
At the top, the infant’s sex was listed as female. Underneath, in a nurse’s handwriting, appeared a temporary identifier:
Baby Bellamy Three.
Beneath that, someone had written a name in blue ink.
Eleanor Rose.
“Was that her name?” I whispered.
“Not officially. A nurse gave her that name while she was in the neonatal unit.”
“Why?”
“She said the baby needed to be called something.”
I touched the words.
Eleanor Rose Bellamy.
The name felt strangely familiar.
Then I remembered Megan once telling me that if we had a daughter, she wanted to name her Eleanor after her grandmother.
I had laughed and told her I preferred something shorter.
She had thrown a pillow at me.
The memory struck harder than any accusation.
I had missed the moment my daughter received her first name.
I had missed her first breath, her first cry, her first days.
I had been across town arguing over photographs manufactured by the woman I planned to marry.
“Where is she now?” I asked.
Mercer didn’t answer immediately.
He opened a final envelope.
Inside was a photocopy of a placement agreement. Most of the names had been blacked out, but the receiving family’s address had not been properly covered. A line of ink stopped halfway across the page, leaving the bottom corner visible.
I read the address.
It was in Brentwood.
Less than twenty miles from my home.
“Who lives there?”
Mercer removed a second page from the envelope.
“Daniel and Rebecca Whitmore.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Whitmore.
Claire’s parents.
I read the names again.
No matter how many times I looked, they did not change.
“Are you saying my daughter has been living with Claire’s family?”
“I’m saying the paperwork shows that she was placed there.”
“Why would they take her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Claire know?”
Mercer’s expression tightened.
“She signed as a witness.”
I looked at the date.
It was three days after Megan gave birth.
Claire had not simply known about the baby.
She had stood in a room and watched someone transfer my daughter to her own family.
I thought about the way she had looked at Megan on the road earlier that day.
There had been no surprise in her face.
Only satisfaction.
I had mistaken it for confidence.
“Is the child still there?” I asked.
Mercer hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“The placement was later moved through another Whitmore foundation. The records became harder to follow. At some point, the child’s name changed.”
“To what?”
He handed me a note.
The handwriting was different from the earlier one. Small, neat, and hurried.
E.R.B. — transferred to Willow Ridge Children’s Residence, April 18.
I stared at the words.
“Children’s residence?”
“It’s not an orphanage,” Mercer said quickly. “It’s a licensed transitional home for children whose guardianship cases are unresolved. Some stay there briefly. Others are placed with foster families.”
“Why would she be moved from the Whitmores?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who runs Willow Ridge?”
Mercer picked up the phone and made a call.
While we waited, I sat down.
For the first time since I had found the birth certificates, I allowed myself to imagine her.
A little girl with pale-blue eyes and blond curls.
Maybe she slept with a stuffed rabbit. Maybe she hated loud noises. Maybe she liked music. Maybe she had Megan’s habit of pressing her lips together when she was thinking.
There were so many possibilities.
I had not earned the right to claim any of them yet.
That was the thought that hurt the most.
Even if she was my daughter, I had not been her father.
I had not protected her.
I had not protected Megan.
When the call ended, Mercer wrote something on a pad.
“Willow Ridge closed two months ago.”
My heart dropped.
“Where was she sent?”
“They transferred most of the children to approved foster homes.”
“Which one?”
“The records director is looking.”
“Call again.”
“Rowan—”
“Call again.”
He did.
This time, the conversation lasted longer. Mercer asked questions, gave my name, then paused several times while listening.
Finally, he hung up.
His face had changed.
“What?”
“The director remembers the child.”
I stood.
“She’s alive?”
Mercer nodded.
“She was alive when she left Willow Ridge.”
“When was that?”
“Eight months ago.”
Eight months.
Megan had been walking down that roadside with the twins, carrying everything she owned in a canvas bag, while another child of ours lived somewhere beyond my reach.
“Where did they send her?”
Mercer reached for the pad.
The address written there was in Nashville.
A modest yellow house in a quiet neighborhood near the university.
The placement name was listed beneath it.
Mara Ellison.
I recognized it.
Mara had been Megan’s closest friend before our marriage began to crumble. She had worked as a pediatric nurse and had once spent Christmas at our house. Claire had accused her of encouraging Megan’s “paranoia.”
After the divorce, Mara had resigned from the hospital.
Then she had disappeared from our social circle.
“I know her,” I said.
Mercer looked surprised.
“She was close to Megan.”
“Yes.”
“Then why would she have the baby?”
“I don’t know.”
I reached for my phone.
Megan’s number was still saved, though I had never called it since the day I sent her away. I had changed phones twice, moved offices, and replaced half the people in my life, but I had never deleted her name.
My thumb hovered over it.
What could I say?
*I found our daughter.*
No.
Not yet.
If the information was wrong, I would be giving Megan hope only to tear it away again.
If it was true, she deserved to hear it from me in person.
More than that, she deserved to see that I was no longer asking her to trust words.
“I’m going to Mara’s house,” I said.
Mercer rose. “You should take someone with you.”
“I’m not going there to threaten anyone.”
“I know.”
“Then why would I need someone?”
“Because this is no longer just about evidence. It’s about a child and a woman who has already lost too much because of decisions made by people who believed they knew best.”
His words stopped me.
Mara had not stolen the baby, perhaps.
She might have been trying to protect her.
Perhaps she had received a child without knowing the full story. Perhaps she had believed the placement was lawful. Perhaps she had spent eight months caring for a little girl who had no idea how many adults had failed her.
I called the driver waiting outside, then changed my mind.
“I’ll drive myself.”
The journey to Nashville passed in a blur of familiar roads.
At every red light, I saw Megan beside me in that hospital bed, holding our daughter.
I wondered whether she remembered Eleanor’s face.
I wondered whether she had spent the last year believing her baby was dead.
By the time I reached the yellow house, the sun had disappeared.
A single lamp glowed beside the front door.
There were children’s drawings taped to the front window. A crooked paper sun. A blue house. Three stick figures holding hands.
I parked along the curb and remained in the car.
My hands were steady now, but I did not trust them.
A man like me was accustomed to entering rooms and changing the atmosphere simply by arriving.
That could not happen here.
I could not bring Bellamy power to this doorstep.
I could only bring the truth.
I stepped out and walked to the door.
Before I knocked, it opened.
Mara Ellison stood on the other side.
She looked older than I remembered, with dark hair pulled loosely behind her head and tired eyes that became wide the moment she saw me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she glanced over my shoulder toward the road.
“Did Megan send you?”
“No.”
Her face tightened.
“Then why are you here?”
“I need to ask you about a child.”
Mara’s hand closed around the edge of the door.
Behind her, somewhere deeper inside the house, a small voice began humming.
The tune was soft and uncertain.
A lullaby.
Mara heard it too.
Her expression shifted from suspicion to fear.
Not fear of me.
Fear of what my presence meant.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
“Is Eleanor Rose inside?”
Mara went completely still.
The humming stopped.
A second later, quiet footsteps moved across the wooden floor.
Mara looked back into the house.
Then she looked at me.
“How do you know that name?”
Before I could answer, a little girl stepped into the hallway.
She was wearing yellow pajamas and holding a worn stuffed rabbit by one ear.
Blond curls framed her face.
She had Megan’s eyes.
But when she looked at me, I saw my own reflection in them.
Mara reached for her hand.
The child glanced from Mara to me, curious but calm.
Then she lifted her chin slightly.
“Is he the man in the picture?” she asked.
My breath caught.
“What picture?” I whispered.
Mara closed her eyes.
And from the room behind her, she said, “The one Claire gave me.”
