I refused to see him.
I sat instead in a small sitting room connected to Ethan’s suite, the folder open on my lap.
The first Claire Bennett’s employee record was incomplete. Research Division. Clearance level redacted. Emergency contact blank. Last badge access: Thornton Biotech Archive Annex, 11:47 p.m., three weeks before her disappearance.
My mother’s name appeared on a transfer log from the same annex.
Margaret Bennett.
Executive Archive Assistant.
Date: the same night.
I stared until the words blurred.
My mother had died two years ago of a stroke. Sudden, devastating, ordinary in the way death can be ordinary on paper. She left behind recipe cards, a sewing basket, a sweater that still smelled faintly of lavender, and no hint that she had ever touched the edge of something dangerous inside the Thornton empire.
But maybe she had tried.
Maybe she had hidden something.
Maybe my father had known enough to be afraid and not enough to protect me.
A soft knock came from the inner door.
Anna stepped in.
“Ethan is sleeping,” she said. “Dr. Moreau is staying nearby.”
I nodded.
She hesitated.
“What is it?” I asked.
Anna closed the door behind her.
“I shouldn’t get involved.”
“People keep saying that right before they get involved.”
A faint smile crossed her face and vanished.
“I was Ethan’s nurse for seven months,” she said. “Before that, there was another nurse. Her name was Celia. She was dismissed after asking questions.”
“What questions?”
“About sedation levels. About why some nights Ethan seemed more responsive after Jason visited.”
My stomach tightened.
“Jason visited him alone?”
“Occasionally. Vivian didn’t know.”
“How is that possible?”
Anna gave me a look. “In houses like this, people know how to make staff choose between truth and employment.”
I thought of my father. Of debt. Of choices that didn’t feel like choices.
“What happened to Celia?”
“She moved away, supposedly. But before she left, she gave me this.”
Anna pulled a small paper from her pocket. It had been folded many times.
“I kept it because I didn’t know who to trust.”
I opened it.
It was a handwritten list.
Dates.
Medication times.
Visitor logs.
Beside several entries was one name.
Jason.
And beside one date, three words were underlined twice:
Patient tried speaking.
The date was six months ago.
I looked up.
“Ethan tried to wake before.”
Anna nodded, eyes troubled. “More than once.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell Vivian?”
“Celia tried. The next day she was gone.”
I felt cold.
“Do you know where Celia is now?”
Anna shook her head. “No. But she left a number.”
She handed me another slip.
Before I could respond, a noise came from the hallway.
Voices.
Vivian’s, low and furious.
Jason’s, calm and amused.
Anna’s face paled.
“Hide that,” she whispered.
I slipped Celia’s note into the folder just as the door opened.
Jason entered without waiting for permission.
Vivian followed behind him, her expression carved from ice.
“Claire,” Jason said warmly. “There you are. Grandmother seems to think I shouldn’t check on my cousin.”
“Your cousin is sleeping,” I said.
“So I hear.”
His eyes moved to the folder on my lap.
“What are you reading?”
“A family album.”
His smile sharpened. “We have terrible photographers.”
Vivian stepped between us. “Leave.”