Chapter 3 - THE DOCTOR WHO WOULD NOT SAY “TWIN”
Dr. Samuel Price refused the first call.
Then the second.
On the third, Grace said:
“We are not asking for protected medical information without authorization. We are telling you an eight-year-old child may currently be at risk because someone has uncovered old records.”
That changed him.
He agreed to meet through hospital counsel.
Stellan did not attend initially.
Grace did.
Better.
Price was seventy-one.
Retired obstetrician.
No disciplinary record.
No criminal history.
He remembered Elena Corsaro.
“Everyone remembered the Corsaros.”
Grace ignored the implication.
“Was she carrying twins?”
Price hesitated.
Then asked:
“What has Stellan been told?”
“Answer independently.”
Good.
Price took a breath.
“At six weeks, two gestational sacs.”
“At twelve?”
“Two viable pregnancies.”
Grace stopped.
The record Stellan remembered said one stopped developing before ten weeks.
Price continued.
“At sixteen weeks, Elena requested that the second fetus be removed from the family’s private medical summary.”
Grace stared.
“Removed?”
“Not medically removed.”
“Hidden from reporting?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She believed someone outside the immediate household had accessed her prenatal records.”
There it was.
“Who?”
“She didn’t know.”
“Did Stellan know?”
Price looked uncomfortable.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Elena asked me not to tell him.”
“Why?”
“She said if Stellan knew there was a security breach involving his unborn children, people would get hurt before she knew who had done it.”
Grace later repeated that sentence to Stellan.
He walked out of the room.
Returned six minutes later.
“Continue.”
Price explained.
Elena and Stellan had already publicly announced one pregnancy.
The second twin became private.
Hospital records used restricted access.
At delivery:
Two girls.
Dulcie first.
Second infant six minutes later.
Smaller.
Respiratory difficulty.
Transferred to neonatal care.
Stellan had not seen because Elena suffered hemorrhaging and Stellan was pulled toward her recovery.
By the time he returned, Dulcie was in the nursery.
The second infant was moved.
Stellan’s face had become stone.
“Moved where?”
Price looked at Grace through video.
“I don’t know the final destination.”
“You were the doctor.”
“A hospital security protocol was activated.”
“By whom?”
“Elena.”
“How?”
“She had prepared for it.”
Months earlier.
That was the part that hurt.
Elena had known enough to prepare an alternate pathway for one child.
Price continued:
“A pediatric nurse named Katherine Hale coordinated the transfer.”
Hale.
Maeve Hale.
Stellan looked at Grace.
“Find her.”
Katherine Hale was sixty-five.
Still alive.
Rhode Island.
Grace called.
Katherine answered.
When Grace said “Elena Corsaro,” the woman began crying.
That was enough.
Two days later they met.
Neutral conference room.
Stellan attended this time.
Katherine walked in carrying a small wooden box.
She looked at him.
“You have her eyes.”
Stellan’s chest tightened.
“Whose?”
“Elena’s.”
He sat.
“Is Maeve Hale the second baby?”
Katherine did not answer immediately.
Then:
“I need you to understand why we did what we did.”
Stellan felt anger.
Grace touched his sleeve once.
He remained quiet.
Katherine continued.
“Three weeks before delivery, Elena received photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“Your home.”
“The hospital entrance.”
“Your car.”
Then:
“And an ultrasound image that had never been released outside the medical system.”
Someone knew about both babies.
The message:
ONE HEIR IS ENOUGH.
Stellan stared.
“Heir.”
“Yes.”
“Who sent it?”
“We never knew.”
Katherine continued.
“Elena believed if both children left the hospital publicly under Corsaro names, one could be targeted.”
“So she split them.”
“For a little while.”
“How little?”
Katherine’s face crumpled.
“It was supposed to be weeks.”
Stellan stood.
“Weeks became eight years.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Elena died.”
“Five years ago.”
“Yes.”
“That still leaves three years.”
Katherine looked at him.
“She had been trying to bring Maeve home.”
Stellan stopped.
“What happened?”
“Every time she got close, another threat appeared.”
He stared.
“Who raised the child?”
Katherine whispered:
“My daughter.”
Stellan’s hands tightened.
“Where is she?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“I will not tell you until her guardian agrees.”
Stellan almost shouted.
Then remembered.
A child.
Not an asset.
Not evidence.
He sat again.
“Does Maeve know who I am?”
Katherine’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“What was she told?”
“That her father did not know where she was.”
Stellan’s anger shifted.
Not rejection.
Good.
“What was she told about Dulcie?”
“That she has a sister.”
His heart stopped.
“She knows Dulcie exists.”
“Yes.”
Dulcie did not know her.
That hurt too.
Then Katherine placed the wooden box on the table.
Inside:
A tiny infant bracelet.
Name:
BABY B — CORSARO.
And a sealed letter.
For Stellan.
Elena’s handwriting.
Katherine said:
“She asked me to give this to you if someone named Imogen ever started asking about Maeve.”
Stellan froze.
Elena died two years before Stellan met Imogen.
“How could she know Imogen?”
Katherine looked confused.
“She didn’t mean a woman named Imogen.”
“What?”
“The letter says…”
Katherine swallowed.
“…‘If anyone from Adrian Imogen Holdings ever asks about Maeve.’”
Stellan stared.
Adrian Imogen Holdings.
A company.
Not a person.
And his fiancée carried the same name.
Coincidence?
May you like
Maybe.
For the first time, Stellan wondered whether Imogen Corsaro had entered his life by accident at all.
