Chapter 6 - The Voice Behind the Glass
They listened to the recording in a secure interview room.
Sarah's voice was thin but unmistakable.
“If this gets to Blake, tell him I did not agree.”
A man answered from somewhere nearby.
“You signed the form.”
“You changed the form after I signed it.”
A chair scraped.
“You're confusing your personal feelings with the needs of the program.”
“And my daughter?” Sarah demanded.
“Abigail's response is the only thing keeping Aurora alive.”
Blake stopped the audio.
The room spun around him.
His daughter was not a response, a trial result, or a column in anyone's spreadsheet.
She was a little girl who loved strawberries and slept with a frayed rabbit.
He made himself press play.
Sarah's voice returned.
“Tell me what you gave her.”
The man answered with clinical impatience.
“We gave her nothing without authorization.”
“Then why did she stop breathing the first time I tried to take her home?”
The recording ended in a sharp electronic tone.
No name was spoken.
But Darlene had heard the man at Oakridge galas.
“Adrian Kessler,” she said.
The detective sent the audio for forensic authentication and requested the underlying clinical records.
No one would make an accusation on voice recognition alone.
That restraint frustrated Blake, but he understood its necessity.
If they rushed, Kessler would disappear and take the evidence with him.
A child protection specialist reviewed Abigail's current care with her physicians.
The specialist found no reason to abruptly change her asthma treatment, but recommended independent review of her earlier research exposure.
Blake sat with Abigail while they discussed the plan in words she could understand.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
His chest broke at the question.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Then why does everyone look scared?”
“Because adults are trying to fix something adults should never have done.”
Abigail thought about that.
“Can you stay?”
“As long as you want.”
That night Darlene returned to her penthouse and found her late husband's fountain pen lying on the kitchen counter.
It had been locked in a display case for eight years.
Next to it sat a photograph of Thomas holding a newborn baby.
On the back someone had written one sentence.
SHE HAS HER GRANDFATHER'S EYES.
Darlene turned the picture over again.
The infant's hospital band read ABIGAIL REED.
And beneath it was a date from six years earlier.
May you like
Thomas Stanley had been alive when Abigail was born.
