Chapter 10 - THE GIRL WHO DIDN’T DIE
I stopped breathing.
“Say that again.”
Marcus looked me directly in the eyes.
“Elena’s body went to the morgue.”
“And Sophia?”
“No confirmed transfer.”
I grabbed the table.
“That’s impossible.”
“We buried her.”
“We buried a closed casket.”
I remembered.
The funeral director saying the injuries were too severe.
I had never looked.
God help me, I had never looked.
“Open the grave.”
Marcus hesitated.
“Boss…”
“Open it.”
By evening, we had legal authorization through federal investigators connected to Crowe’s case.
I stood in the cemetery while machines tore into the earth where I had mourned my child.
Grace stayed home with Amara.
Adrian stood beside me.
Neither of us spoke.
The casket came up after dark.
The medical examiner opened it.
I turned away.
Seconds passed.
Then a voice said,
“Mr. Hale.”
I looked.
The casket contained remains.
But the examiner looked confused.
“What?”
“These are not the remains of a six-year-old child.”
Adrian grabbed my arm.
“What?”
The examiner continued.
“These appear to be animal remains mixed with personal effects.”
My knees nearly gave out.
Sophia’s pink bracelet lay inside.
Her favorite stuffed fox.
Her shoes.
But not her.
I looked at Marcus.
“She lived.”
“We don’t know that.”
I grabbed his shirt.
“She lived!”
“At least long enough for someone to remove her from the hospital system.”
“Vince.”
“And Dr. Shaw.”
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered immediately.
A woman whispered,
“Mr. Hale?”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t know me.”
“Where is my daughter?”
Silence.
Then—
“She was alive when I saw her.”
My entire body went still.
“When?”
“The night of the crash.”
“Who are you?”
“I was an ER nurse.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
I nearly shouted.
“What did you see?”
“Dr. Shaw transferred her.”
“To where?”
“She said your daughter was being moved for security reasons.”
“Where?”
“I followed them to the ambulance bay.”
Her breathing grew shaky.
“There was no hospital ambulance waiting.”
My skin turned cold.
“What was there?”
“A black van.”
“Who was driving?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“Did you see Sophia?”
“Yes.”
“Was she conscious?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My eyes closed.
My daughter had been alive.
For two years, somewhere in the world, my daughter might have been alive.
“What did she say?”
The nurse began crying.
“She kept asking for you.”
My hand shook.
“She said, ‘Tell Daddy I waited.’”
The call ended.
I stared into the open grave.
Then Marcus’s phone chimed.
He looked down.
A facial-recognition system had found something.
A photograph taken three months ago at a private school in Vermont.
A little girl stood in the background.
Older.
Taller.
May you like
But I knew those eyes.
Sophia.
