Chapter 2 - THE GHOST IN THE ARCHIVESThe black Bentley purred softly as it cut through the crisp Boston traffic, heading away from Brookside Memorial.
In the back seat, the silence was deafening. The three little girls sat huddled together on the plush leather upholstery, their small legs dangling inches above the floor mats. They weren't crying anymore, but they were terrifyingly quiet—the silence of children who had learned that making noise brought trouble.
Richard sat opposite them, gripping the edge of the leather seat so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Jenkins," Richard said, his voice dangerously low.
"Yes, Mr. Blackwood?" the driver answered, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror, tracking the three tiny passengers with an expression of profound shock.
"Check your tablet. Pull up the private medical files from St. Jude’s Hospital in Portland, Maine, from November four years ago."
"Sir? Portland?"
"Just do it."
Richard turned his gaze back to the girls. Up close, in the dim, warm light of the car interior, the resemblance was agonizing. The middle one, who had introduced herself as Lily, was staring at the electronic dashboard with wide-eyed fascination. The one on the left was named Chloe, and she was fiercely guarding a small, canvas backpack filled with crayons and a worn-out stuffed rabbit with one ear missing. The third, Mia, had fallen asleep against Chloe’s shoulder, her breathing soft and rhythmic.
Three years.
When Elizabeth had died in that horrific crash on Commonwealth Avenue, the police report had stated she was alone. The autopsy had been thorough, clinical, and devastatingly final. Or so he had thought.
Richard’s mind raced back to the final months before Elizabeth's death. They had been distant. He had been consumed by the hostile takeover of Vanguard Technologies, working eighty-hour weeks, sleeping at the office, barely speaking to his wife. One night, Elizabeth had come to his office—late, looking pale, carrying a large manila envelope. He had snapped at her, told her he was in the middle of a crucial conference call, and had his assistant escort her out.
“Flowers don’t pretend, Richard,” her voice echoed in his memory.
She had tried to tell him. She had tried to give him the envelope.
And he had shut the door in her face.
"Mr. Blackwood," Jenkins spoke up, his voice trembling slightly. "I’ve pulled the archives. St. Jude’s. November 2022. There is a record... a restricted file under the name Elizabeth Vance. Multiple births. Triplet girls. Discharged against medical advice three days after delivery."
Richard closed his eyes, a searing pain stabbing behind his temples.
"Why wasn't this in her background check when we married?" Richard whispered fiercely.
"Sir, Elizabeth Vance wasn't her birth name," Jenkins said carefully, pulling the car up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the Blackwood estate on Beacon Hill. "Before she met you... her father was Arthur Vance. The pharmaceutical tycoon who went bankrupt and vanished following a federal investigation. She changed her name to distance herself from the scandal. She wiped her digital footprint clean before you ever met her at that charity gala."
The heavy iron gates swung open automatically.
May you like
Richard looked down at the birth certificate still clutched in his hand. The hospital seal was real. The signatures were real.
And three living, breathing pieces of Elizabeth were about to step foot into a house that had been a tomb for three years.
