Chapter 5
The hospital went into a different kind of motion after that.
Security appeared outside my room.
Police took statements.
My father made calls.
Daniel’s father emailed scanned copies of Jonathan Mercer’s research notebooks from a locked cabinet that had not been opened in decades.
And I lay in bed trying to understand how one fever had destroyed the architecture of my entire life.
At two in the morning, my mother slept curled on the sofa.
My father had finally gone downstairs to speak to investigators.
Daniel stood at the window.
“You should sleep,” I said.
“So should you.”
“I’m bedridden.
I’m technically outperforming you.”
He smiled faintly.
Then silence returned.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
“I didn’t know if it mattered.”
“You stayed all night.”
“Yes.”
“Because I was Jonathan’s daughter?”
He looked at me.
“At first?”
That answer hurt.
“At first.”
I waited.
Daniel came closer.
“My father carried guilt about your mother for years.”
“Why?”
“He believed Jonathan should have told Richard everything sooner.
He believed someone could have protected him.”
I looked at the ceiling.
“Apparently secrets are hereditary.”
“Apparently.”
“What was Jonathan like?”
Daniel’s expression softened.
“I only know stories.”
“Tell me one.”
“My father says he once missed an anatomy exam because he spent four hours helping a stranger find her dog.”
I smiled.
“That is medically irresponsible.”
“Family legend says he passed the makeup exam with the highest score in the class.”
“Annoying.”
“Very.”
“What else?”
“He hated olives.
Played terrible guitar.
Loved thunderstorms.”
I looked toward the rain.
“So do I.”
Daniel smiled.
“I know.”
I turned.
“How?”
His face went still.
There it was again.
Something withheld.
“Daniel.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“When I was nineteen, my father gave me Jonathan’s box.”
“And?”
“There were letters.”
“To my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Did you read them?”
“Some.”
I should have been angry.
Instead I was curious.
“What did he say?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Mostly ordinary things.”
“Those are usually the important ones.”
He looked down.
“He wrote that your mother always opened windows during storms because she liked the smell.”
My throat tightened.
Daniel continued.
“When my father told me you existed, I searched your name.”
“Stalker.”
“Clinically curious.”
“You found photographs.”
“Interviews.
Foundation events.
College articles.”
“So you knew what I looked like.”
“Yes.”
“And tonight when your father called…”
“He said your name.”
Daniel’s eyes met mine.
“I knew immediately who you were.”
“Then why were you afraid?”
He took a breath.
“Because my father told me what happened when you were six.”
“And because it looked the same.”
“Yes.”
I studied him.
“You didn’t look at me like a patient.”
“No.”
“How did you look at me?”
He smiled sadly.
“Like someone I had heard about for fifteen years had suddenly become real.”
Something in my chest moved.
Dangerous.
Soft.
Alive.
“Daniel.”
He stepped back slightly.
A boundary.
He was still my doctor tonight.
I respected him more for remembering.
“You need sleep.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll remember.”
“I assumed.”
I closed my eyes.
For the first time since waking, I felt safe enough to do it.
At 5:12 a.m., my father disappeared.
Not metaphorically.
Actually disappeared.
His phone went off.
Security could not find him.
His driver said he had not left through the main entrance.
My mother woke to three police officers outside the room.
“Where is Richard?”
Nobody knew.
I looked at Daniel.
He looked worried.
Then my phone vibrated on the bedside table.
One message.
From Dad.
I’m sorry.
Nothing else.
I tried calling.
Straight to voicemail.
My mother began pacing.
“He wouldn’t leave.”
I stared at the message.
“What is he apologizing for?”
“Emily—”
“What did he do?”
Daniel reached for his phone.
Then stopped.
Someone had emailed him.
He opened it.
His face went white.
“What?”
“Daniel?”
He read silently.
Then looked at my mother.
“Mrs.
Whitmore, did Richard ever have access to Jonathan’s original notebooks?”
“No.”
Daniel turned the phone toward us.
An email had arrived from his father.
One sentence.
Daniel, someone broke into the house.
Jonathan’s research box is gone.
My mother stopped moving.
I stared at my father’s message.
I’m sorry.
May you like
And for the first time in my life,
I wondered whether Richard Whitmore had spent thirty years protecting me—or protecting the person who had tried to kill me.
