Chapter 2 - The Ghost Files
The radiator in my studio apartment clanked and hissed, spitting lukewarm air into a room that always smelled faintly of damp wool and instant coffee.
I sat at the wobbly kitchen table under the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb, the heavy hospital discharge folder spread out before me. It was a folder I had avoided opening for fourteen months—a thick cardboard sleeve containing the official records of St. Catherine’s Medical Center.
With trembling fingers, I pulled out the death certificates.
Certified Copy of Vital Statistics. Name: Unnamed Male (Twin A). Date of Birth: June 18. Time of Death: 4:17 A.M. Cause of Death: Acute respiratory failure secondary to extreme prematurity.
I pulled out the second and third certificates. Twin B. Twin C (Lily). All three declared dead at 4:17 in the morning. All three signed by the attending pediatrician, Dr. Malcolm Mercer.
I stared at the dates and the times, the numbers blurring behind hot, fresh tears that I refused to let fall. I had been unconscious during the delivery—they had given me general anesthesia because of sudden, catastrophic complications. When I woke up, the bassinet was empty, and the nurses wouldn't look me in the eye. They handed me a pamphlet on grief counseling and told me my body simply wasn't strong enough to carry life to term.
Bzzzz.
The sound of my phone vibrating against the wooden tabletop made me jump.
It was a blocked number.
I stared at the screen for three long seconds before swiping to answer and bringing the phone to my ear.
"Pamela Hayes," a voice said. It was Roman Voss.
Even through the compressed digital audio, the sheer gravity of his presence seemed to fill the tiny apartment. Behind his voice, faint and distant, I could hear the unmistakable sound of a child crying—a high, frantic wail that sounded like the little girl from the restaurant.
"Mr. Voss," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. "How did you get this number?"
"Donovan is thorough," Roman replied flatly. "And you are currently standing in a city where my word carries more weight than a court order. Listen to me very carefully, Pamela. My children have not slept in fourteen months. They have never spoken a single word to me, to their nanny, to their high-priced pediatricians, or to each other. Until tonight."
"I... I don't know why they did that," I whispered, pulling my knees up to my chest. "I'm just a waitress."
"No," Roman said, his voice dropping into a harsh, intense register. "You aren't. My investigators pulled your St. Catherine’s file from fourteen months ago. The adoption records for my children—records that were sealed by a private family court order—state that they were born on June eighteenth at St. Catherine’s, just after four in the morning. The adoption agency claimed their biological mother died during delivery."
My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt sideways.
"I didn't die," I whispered, the words tearing their way out of my chest like jagged glass. "I woke up in that recovery room, and they told me my babies were gone."
There was a long, suffocating silence on the other end of the line. When Roman spoke again, his voice had lost its cold, imperious edge, replaced by something dark, terrifying, and laced with a suppressed fury that made my blood run cold.
"I am aware of that now," Roman said. "My late wife, Alessandra, arranged their adoption through a private attorney named Conrad Vale, claiming the mother wanted complete anonymity and had signed away all rights while unconscious. Vale closed his practice and vanished two weeks after Alessandra died in a car accident eleven months ago."
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"My babies," I choked out, the grief of fourteen months crashing down like a tidal wave. "My babies didn't die."
"No," Roman said, a lethal edge creeping back into his tone. "They didn't. And someone is going to tell us why."
