Chapter 26 - Before Claire Arrived
The records center required a formal request to access the archived box. The inspector general submitted it, and we waited while the office verified the chain of custody. Nadia paced the hallway, impatient with every delay.
“If someone visited me, I should remember,” she said. “I was injured, but I wasn’t unconscious for days.”
“You might not have been told who they were,” I said.
“Or they made sure I couldn’t remember.”
Ethan stood against the wall a few feet away. He had not tried to repair things with her since she learned about his signature. I could tell it cost him, but that was not the same as saying Nadia owed him comfort.
My father joined us at the records center. He had received a call from Peter, who had remembered one more detail: Harlan had referred to a “family liaison” during the review.
“Could that have been you?” I asked.
Arthur shook his head. “I was never called. If I had visited Nadia, I would remember.”
The archive staff brought out the box just after lunch. It contained a carbon copy of the hospital transfer order, a map of the medical route, and a visitors’ log from the secure facility.
Nadia’s name appeared under an alias. Three entries were marked ADMINISTRATIVE. The first was signed by Harlan’s assistant. The second bore no signature. The third listed the visitor as C. Whitaker.
My mouth went dry.
Nadia looked at me. “Did you visit me?”
“I don’t remember.”
The date was two days after the extraction. I had been flown back to a base hospital with a shoulder injury and a concussion. I had lost part of that week to pain medication and fever.
“I could have gone,” I said. “But I don’t remember going.”
Ethan stared at the log. “You were barely conscious that day. They wouldn’t have let you travel alone.”
“Maybe they brought me.”
I searched the rest of the folder. A note attached to the visitors’ log read: The field lead was informed the casualty had been moved. Do not disclose ongoing identity review.
“I might have seen her,” I whispered.
Nadia’s face had gone still. “What did you tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could you have agreed to let them keep my identity hidden?”
“No.”
“You don’t remember.”
The words were not an accusation. They were worse: a question neither of us could answer.
The investigator found another page in the box. It contained a short statement in my handwriting, signed with my name. The language was formal and unlike anything I normally wrote, but the signature was unquestionably mine.
I acknowledge that the patient’s identity may require protective handling pending review.
“I didn’t write that,” I said.
“It may have been drafted for you,” the investigator replied. “We’ll compare the ink and paper.”
Nadia turned away. “They used your name to make the lie look clean.”
“Or I signed it without understanding,” I said, my voice breaking.
“I don’t know which is worse.”
Ethan stepped toward us, but stopped when Nadia lifted her hand.
She needed space.
I asked the investigator to preserve the page and obtain the medical records from the base hospital. The chart might show whether I had been well enough to understand what I signed.
As the archive staff packed the box, a loose sheet slid from beneath the folder. It was a handwritten note from the unnamed visitor.
She asked for Claire. Tell her Claire came.
Nadia stared at it.
“You were there,” she said.
“I think I was.”
“And you left without finding me.”
I reached for her, but she stepped back.
May you like
Then the investigator examined the ink on my statement and looked up.
“This was signed three weeks after the operation,” she said. “Not two days.”
