Chapter 3 - The Secret Doctor’s VisitAn hour later, after a breakfast that vanished almost as fast as the previous night's grilled cheese, Grant knew he could not wait another minute.
He called Dr. Arthur Sterling—a trusted family physician who had served the Whitmore household for over thirty years, a man whose loyalty lay with medical ethics rather than Eleanor Whitmore’s tyrannical commands.
Within forty-five minutes, Dr. Sterling arrived at the penthouse carrying a black leather medical bag.
He examined Norah and Hazel in the quiet guest bedroom. The girls sat side by side on the examination table, holding hands tightly, while Dr. Sterling checked their vitals, listened to their chests, and inspected the old, fading bruises on their arms.
When the examination was finished, Dr. Sterling stepped out into the hallway, pulling Grant aside. The old doctor’s face was etched with grim sorrow.
“Physically, they are malnourished, exhausted, and suffering from mild neglect,” Dr. Sterling reported quietly, keeping his voice down so the girls wouldn't hear. “Mentally, they are hyper-vigilant—classic trauma responses from prolonged confinement. Grant... where on earth did you find them?”
“In an alley downtown,” Grant answered, his jaw tight. “A woman was trying to sell them for five hundred dollars.”
Dr. Sterling’s breath caught. He stared at Grant, his eyes wide with horror. Then, his expression shifted into something deeply troubled, a heavy secret resting on his tongue.
“Grant... look at them closely,” Dr. Sterling murmured, glancing back through the open doorway at the two little girls sharing a box of crayons. “Look at Norah’s left earlobe. The slight notch at the bottom. And Hazel’s distinctive hazel-green eyes.”
Grant frowned, a cold shiver running down his spine. “What are you saying, Arthur?”
“I’m saying... five years ago, I was the attending physician at St. Jude Hospital when Elena gave birth,” Dr. Sterling whispered, his hands trembling slightly. “Your mother ordered me to sign death certificates for two stillborn infants. But I never saw the bodies, Grant. Your mother handled the arrangements personally. She brought me the papers already signed by the county coroner.”
Grant staggered back a step, colliding against the hallway wall. The air vanished from his lungs.
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“Are you insane?!” Grant hissed, his voice rising in panic. “My mother told me they died at birth!”
“Your mother is a woman who believes the Whitmore name cannot be tainted by scandal, poverty, or unexpected complications,” Dr. Sterling said gravely. He reached into his pocket and pulled out two sterile cotton swabs in sealed plastic tubes. “Before I came here, I collected DNA samples from both girls' toothbrushes. Run the test, Grant. Find out the truth.”
