Chapter 6
The Daughter They Stole
I barely slept that night.
Every sound in the hospital hallway made me look toward the door.
Detective Grant placed officers outside Gabriel's room.
Evelyn and Nia stayed with Margaret at a protected location arranged by investigators.
My mother refused to leave the hospital.
For the first time, our broken family was beginning to come together.
And someone wanted to tear us apart.
At seven the next morning, Nia called.
"Maya, the results are here."
I sat up.
"What results?"
"The DNA test."
My heart stopped.
She was crying.
"Can you come?"
An hour later, I entered a small private consultation room.
Evelyn sat beside Nia.
Margaret stood near the window.
An independent genetic counselor placed the report on the table.
I took Evelyn's hand.
The counselor explained that the test showed an extremely high probability that Evelyn and Nia were biological maternal half-sisters.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Nia started sobbing.
Evelyn stared at the report.
"My sister?"
Nia nodded.
"I think so."
Evelyn moved toward her.
They embraced.
Not like contestants.
Not like rivals.
Like two people who had spent their lives missing something they couldn't name.
I cried with them.
Margaret covered her face.
"My Rosalind," she whispered. "Both your girls came home."
But the moment was interrupted by the counselor.
"There's another matter you should understand."
We looked at her.
"The results support a maternal relationship. However, the identities in the historical adoption records still need to be verified."
Nia wiped her cheeks.
"What does that mean?"
"It means we should not assume every document you have is accurate."
I remembered Diane.
The altered scores.
The missing baby.
The forged medical records.
I understood.
Someone had spent twenty-three years rewriting the truth.
And we were only beginning to untangle it.
Detective Grant arrived shortly afterward.
She carried a thick folder.
"We located the nurse who helped Gabriel escape."
"Is she safe?" I asked.
"Yes. She's cooperating."
Grant opened the folder.
"Her records also led us to an old adoption agency."
Nia stiffened.
"What agency?"
"Southern Family Placement Services."
Nia's hands shook.
"That's where my adoptive mother said I came from."
Grant nodded.
"The agency closed in 2007 after complaints involving missing birth records."
I felt sick.
"Did Charles own it?"
"Not officially."
Grant placed another document on the table.
"But one of its primary financial supporters was the Whitmore Foundation."
Nia began crying again.
Evelyn wrapped an arm around her.
Grant continued.
"We believe Rosalind's daughter was taken from the hospital and placed through a fraudulent adoption."
Margaret whispered, "Why?"
Grant looked at her.
"We're investigating whether the child was used as leverage against Rosalind."
I swallowed.
"Charles wanted the evidence."
"Exactly."
Nia stared at the floor.
"So I was stolen because my mother refused to stay quiet."
Nobody answered immediately.
Finally, Evelyn said, "You were stolen because evil people made evil choices."
Nia looked at her.
Evelyn squeezed her hand.
"And none of it was your fault."
I had never loved my best friend more.
That afternoon, Nia asked me to accompany her to visit the woman who had raised her.
Her adoptive mother, Patricia Walker, lived in a modest house surrounded by flowering trees.
Patricia opened the door and immediately embraced Nia.
"My baby."
Nia held her tightly.
Then pulled back.
"Mom, I know."
Patricia froze.
"Know what?"
"About Rosalind."
The color drained from her face.
We sat in the living room.
Patricia stared at the photograph of Rosalind.
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
"I prayed this day would never come."
Nia recoiled.
"Why?"
"Because I knew how much it would hurt you."
Nia shook her head.
"You knew I was stolen?"
Patricia burst into tears.
"No!"
She grabbed Nia's hands.
"I swear I didn't."
"Then what did you know?"
Patricia took a trembling breath.
"Your father and I were told your birth mother had died."
"Who told you?"
"Diane Whitmore."
I leaned forward.
"She handled the adoption?"
Patricia nodded.
"Raymond had recently started working for the pageant. Diane said she knew a child who needed a loving home."
Nia looked devastated.
"Did Dad believe her?"
"At first."
Patricia wiped her tears.
"But years later, he found records proving the birth mother was alive when the adoption happened."
I stared.
"What did he do?"
"He confronted Diane."
Patricia looked toward the window.
"She threatened him."
Nia whispered, "And then he died."
Patricia nodded.
"His death was ruled an accident."
"What happened?" I asked.
"His car went off a bridge during a storm."
I thought of Victor Hayes.
Charles Whitmore.
Rosalind's fire.
Too many convenient tragedies.
"Did Raymond leave anything?" I asked.
Patricia hesitated.
Then she stood.
She returned with an old cassette recorder.
"He gave me this two days before he died."
Nia began shaking.
Patricia pressed play.
A man's voice filled the room.
"If anything happens to me, Patricia, take our daughter away from Atlanta."
Nia covered her mouth.
Raymond continued.
"Diane lied about that baby. Rosalind Brooks is alive, and she wants her daughter back."
A long pause.
Then his voice dropped.
"Charles has records hidden in the pageant headquarters. Diane knows where. I found proof of what happened to Gabriel Carter."
My chest tightened.
The tape crackled.
Then Raymond spoke again.
"But there's something worse."
I leaned forward.
"Rosalind wasn't the only woman Charles targeted."
The recording abruptly ended.
Patricia stared at the machine.
"That's all he recorded."
I felt a cold fear rising.
Nia looked at me.
"What does that mean?"
I thought about the surveillance photographs.
The missing financial records.
The threatening messages.
And a horrifying possibility occurred to me.
Maybe this wasn't just about a stolen crown.
Maybe the pageant had been used to destroy women for decades.
I called Detective Grant.
She listened to the recording.
Then said something that made me go still.
"Maya, the state investigation has uncovered more missing-person reports."
"How many?"
"At least seven women connected to the Whitmore Foundation."
My heart hammered.
"Are they alive?"
"We don't know."
I looked at Nia.
She was holding her adoptive mother's hand.
Two women who had almost lost each other because of a lie.
I realized we weren't simply trying to win justice for Rosalind.
May you like
We might be the only people capable of helping seven other families learn what had happened to their daughters.
And somewhere out there, Charles Whitmore knew we were getting close.
