Chapter 12 - Aurora's Children
Naomi's independent investigators found former Aurora participants scattered across several states.
Some had never been told they were enrolled.
Others remembered consent documents written in language no ordinary patient could understand.
The program's true history was broader than the secret of one family.
Families had been harmed while executives traded reassuring reports.
Darlene insisted survivors be offered independent legal and medical support without requiring silence agreements.
Blake approved, but he was careful not to let a corporate apology become the center of the story.
“People were hurt,” he told her.
“They need to be heard even if they never forgive Oakridge.”
The first former researcher willing to testify was Dr. Lena Ortiz.
She had resigned when she discovered that sample identifiers had been deliberately disconnected from consent records.
“Someone wanted the research usable without leaving names attached,” Lena said.
“Thomas?”
“Thomas and Kessler argued about almost everything,” she replied.
“But they agreed the data belonged to them.”
She showed Naomi a printed page from an archived laboratory ledger.
AURORA was not the name of a medicine.
It was an internal database of families whose immune markers were unusually rare.
Blake's childhood samples had been cataloged without his knowledge.
Sarah learned about the database while auditing claims that Northstar's work was properly consented.
“Was Abigail given an experimental treatment?” Blake asked.
Lena would not guess.
“The records suggest exposure to a research compound during infancy, but we need original pharmacy documentation to establish what actually happened.”
Blake's anger tightened into something focused.
He needed records, not rumors.
The detective secured authorization to examine Northstar's old storage facility.
There they found abandoned freezers, missing inventory logs, and a computer whose drive had been physically removed.
One cabinet remained locked.
Inside were dozens of photographs of children at different ages.
One showed Abigail at four, asleep beside her rabbit.
Another showed her from the previous week.
Someone was monitoring her still.
Lena examined an old wall calendar.
A symbol was circled beside tomorrow's date.
She recognized it.
“The annual data reconciliation,” she said.
“Who conducts it?”
“Whoever owns the master archive.”
At that moment an alarm sounded at the hospital.
Blake received a call from Abigail's nurse.
“Mr. Reed, your daughter is safe, but someone just tried to enter her room using your badge.”
Blake looked down at his own badge clipped to his jacket.
He had never let it out of his sight.
May you like
Someone had made an exact copy.
