Chapter 7
I called Rebecca Stone the following morning.
It was Sunday.
I expected to leave a message.
Instead, she answered after the third ring.
"Rebecca Stone."
"My name is Eleanor Whitmore."
Silence.
Then she said softly, "Mrs. Whitmore. I'm very sorry about Thomas."
I closed my eyes.
"You knew him?"
"Yes."
"Then you know why I'm calling."
Another pause.
"I believe I do."
I looked across my kitchen table.
Michael sat beside a cup of coffee.
Margaret stood at the sink.
Bear and Sam were in the living room, sorting copies of Thomas's documents.
My house hadn't held this many people in years.
And yet the empty chair beside me still felt enormous.
"I want to know what happened to my son," I told Rebecca.
Her voice became serious.
"Then I think we should meet."
Two hours later, Rebecca arrived at our house.
She was in her forties.
She wore a plain navy jacket and carried a leather briefcase.
She didn't waste time with small talk.
After offering her condolences, she placed a folder on the table.
"Thomas contacted my office eighteen months ago."
I stared at her.
"That recently?"
She nodded.
"He had been investigating for years, but a newly discovered set of records gave us a basis to review the matter."
"Did you believe him?"
"At first, I wasn't certain."
She glanced at Michael.
"Then we reviewed the documents and obtained additional evidence."
Margaret sat down.
"What evidence?"
Rebecca opened the folder.
"Financial records from an adoption agency connected to Dr. Bell."
She explained that the agency had operated for decades.
Many adoptions were legitimate.
But a smaller group of files contained suspicious payments and altered medical records.
Some mothers had signed consent forms.
Others apparently had not.
Several children were listed as deceased in one record and adopted in another.
My hands began trembling.
"How many?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"We haven't established the total."
"How many possible cases?"
"At least twenty-seven."
I looked toward Michael.
Twenty-seven.
Twenty-seven families.
Twenty-seven mothers who might have spent their lives grieving children who were alive.
I could barely speak.
"Are those mothers still living?"
"Some are."
I pressed my hand to my mouth.
Rebecca continued.
"Thomas wanted us to identify them."
My eyes filled.
Of course he did.
Even while searching for our son, he had been thinking about everyone else.
"Why didn't he tell me?" I whispered.
Rebecca looked uncomfortable.
"That was his decision."
"I know."
I looked at my husband's photograph.
"I just wish he'd trusted me to carry it with him."
Rebecca leaned forward.
"Mrs. Whitmore, Thomas told me something during our last meeting."
I turned back.
"What?"
"He said you were the bravest person he'd ever known."
Tears slipped down my cheeks.
"He said he wasn't keeping quiet because you were weak."
I swallowed.
"He said he'd watched you survive losing Michael once, and he couldn't bear to make you lose him again if the evidence fell apart."
I closed my eyes.
That was Thomas.
Always trying to protect me.
Even when protection meant carrying too much alone.
I loved him.
I was angry with him.
Both feelings lived inside me.
Rebecca continued.
"We've gathered substantial historical evidence. The challenge is that many alleged participants are deceased, and some potential crimes may be beyond criminal prosecution."
Margaret frowned.
"So nothing can be done?"
"That's not what I'm saying."
Rebecca explained that investigators were examining whether any recent obstruction, falsification, or destruction of evidence had occurred.
Richard Bell's behavior was relevant.
But his family connection alone did not establish guilt.
They needed proof.
"Thomas believed Richard had access to original records," Rebecca said.
"Records that could identify more families."
My stomach tightened.
"Where are they?"
"We're working on that."
Michael slowly raised his hand.
"There may be something I can help with."
Everyone looked at him.
He reached into his bag.
"My adoptive father owned a small printing company."
He explained that Robert Bennett occasionally printed forms for the adoption agency.
After Robert died, Michael inherited boxes of old business records.
Invoices.
Correspondence.
Delivery receipts.
He had never considered them important.
"Some are still in my basement," he said.
Rebecca sat straighter.
"Do you have them now?"
"No."
"Can you preserve them?"
"Absolutely."
She gave him careful instructions not to alter anything.
I watched them speak.
My son.
My living son.
Helping uncover the truth of his own childhood.
For the first time, I could imagine justice.
Then Margaret spoke.
"There's something else."
I looked at her.
She was staring at her hands.
"What now?"
Her voice trembled.
"Five years ago, when Dad first told me about Michael, I didn't believe him."
I waited.
"I thought he was being manipulated."
She swallowed.
"I hired someone to investigate."
Michael went still.
"You investigated me?"
Margaret nodded.
"I'm sorry."
I closed my eyes.
She continued.
"The investigator found no evidence that Michael wanted money. But he found something strange about Richard Bell."
Rebecca leaned forward.
"What?"
"Richard had purchased a warehouse containing the adoption agency's archived files."
The room became silent.
"When?" Rebecca asked.
"About six years ago."
"Do you have documentation?"
Margaret nodded.
"I kept the report."
Rebecca's expression changed.
"That could be important."
Margaret rushed upstairs to find it.
While she was gone, Michael looked at me.
"Your daughter doesn't like me very much."
My heart ached.
"She doesn't know you."
"Neither do you."
I touched his hand.
"That's true."
Then I smiled sadly.
"But I'd very much like to change that."
He squeezed my fingers.
"So would I."
Margaret returned with a folder.
Rebecca opened it.
Her eyes moved rapidly across the pages.
Then she stopped.
"Interesting."
I leaned closer.
"What?"
She pointed toward a photograph attached to the report.
It showed a warehouse on the outskirts of town.
A delivery truck stood outside.
The company's name was printed across the side.
Bell Medical Archives.
But that wasn't what caught my attention.
Standing beside the truck was a man I recognized.
He was older in the photograph, but his face was unmistakable.
It was the funeral director who had arranged Thomas's burial.
I stared at Rebecca.
"Why is Mr. Harper there?"
She looked at the photograph.
"You know him?"
"He's the man who told me my husband needed a smaller chapel."
May you like
Rebecca's expression grew serious.
"Mrs. Whitmore, I think we need to ask him some questions."
