Chapter 3 - The Ghost Files
The black sedan slid through the empty, rain-slicked streets of Chicago like a predatory shadow.
In the front seat sat Donovan, the scarred man who had accompanied Roman to the restaurant, his eyes flicking constantly between the rearview mirror and the dark alleyways. In the back seat sat Roman Voss and me, separated by a foot of space that felt charged with a volatile, suffocating energy.
Roman looked even more exhausted up close. Without the armor of his corporate composure, the heavy lines around his eyes and the tight set of his jaw revealed a man pushed to the absolute brink of his sanity.
"Tell me everything," Roman commanded quietly, not looking at me, his gaze fixed on a thick manila folder resting on his lap. "Every detail of what happened the night you went into labor."
I stared out the rain-streaked window, swallowing the knot of grief that had blocked my throat for fourteen months.
"I was twenty-six weeks pregnant," I began, my voice trembling. "It was a stormy night in December. Severe abdominal pain. I called an ambulance myself. When I woke up at Saint Jude, Dr. Harrison was standing by my bed. He looked... uncomfortable. He told me the hemorrhage was too severe, the babies were too small, and none of them survived."
"Did you ask to see them?" Roman asked, his hands clenching into fists against his knees.
"I tried," I sobbed, the memory crashing over me like freezing water. "I asked to hold them, just to say goodbye. Dr. Harrison told me it was too dangerous, that the bodies had already been transferred to the morgue for biohazard disposal. They gave me three death certificates in the mail two weeks later. No footprints. No autopsy reports. Just paper."
Roman opened the manila folder. Inside were hospital admission logs, birth certificates, and medical discharge summaries.
"Look at this," he said, turning the folder toward me and pointing to a highlighted row.
My eyes scanned the page.
Patient: Hayes, Pamela. Admitted: Dec 14, 11:42 PM. Ward 4B, Operating Room 3. Patient: Voss, Victoria / Confidential Surrogate. Admitted: Dec 14, 11:45 PM. Ward 4B, Operating Room 3.
"Victoria was my wife," Roman said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "She died during the delivery. Or so I was told by the hospital board. They handed me three healthy newborns the next morning and told me the surrogate had perished from complications."
I stared at the paperwork, the pieces snapping together with terrifying, horrific clarity.
"Operating Room 3," I whispered. "We were in the same room. Or rooms adjacent on the same wing. Dr. Harrison was the lead obstetrician for both cases."
"Dr. Harrison retired six months ago," Donovan spoke up from the front seat without turning around, his voice low and gritty. "Moved out of state. Sold his Chicago estate for cash and bought a villa in the Cayman Islands."
Roman turned his head, his intense hazel eyes locking onto mine. They were the exact same eyes as the little boy in the restaurant who had looked up at me and said Mom.
"They didn't die, Pamela," Roman said, the weight of his words crushing the last illusions I had clung to for over a year. "Someone stole them. Or someone traded them. A high-profile billionaire grieving a dead wife is a very convenient client for a corrupt hospital network looking to place unwanted or trafficked infants into a secure, wealthy pipeline."
May you like
"Traded?" I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth. "My babies... my babies weren't dead?"
"Your children were alive," Roman said, his voice trembling with a suppressed rage that could easily tear the city apart. "And my children... were yours."
