Chapter 4 — The Hospital Records
The three hours before Lily was born had always felt like a dream.
Now they felt like a crime scene.
I sat in my car outside St. Mary's for nearly twenty minutes after reading the message.
Ask him about the three hours before Lily was born.
I read it again.
Then again.
The words blurred.
Three hours.
I had always remembered the beginning of that night.
The contractions.
The drive to the hospital.
Daniel's hand gripping mine.
The bright hallway.
The nurse asking questions.
My mother's voice over the phone.
Then pain.
A lot of pain.
After that, everything became broken pieces.
A ceiling.
A monitor.
Daniel's face.
Someone telling me to breathe.
Then darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, Lily was beside me.
That was all I remembered.
But now I knew there were three hours missing.
And somebody wanted me to know they mattered.
I started the car.
I didn't go home.
I drove to my attorney's office.
She was waiting when I arrived.
I placed the hospital records on her desk.
“I need you to look at this.”
She read the pages silently.
When she reached the note about the missing verification sheet, her expression changed.
“This is serious.”
“I know.”
“And the nursery alarm?”
“I know.”
“And Laura Carter?”
“I don't know who she is.”
My attorney looked up.
“Have you asked Daniel?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because if he knows you're investigating, he may start destroying evidence.”
I looked at her.
“He already knows.”
She stopped.
“How?”
“He texted me.”
“What did he say?”
I showed her.
She read the message.
Her face hardened.
“He knows you went to the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“You didn't tell him.”
“No.”
“Then someone told him.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“We don't know yet.”
She closed the folder.
“Which means we need to assume someone is still protecting him.”
I sat down.
“Can we get the full hospital records?”
“We can request them.”
“I don't want copies of what they decide to give us.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
“I want the original archive.”
“That may be difficult.”
“Then make it difficult for them not to give it to us.”
She studied me for a moment.
“You're sure?”
I nodded.
“I've spent four months letting people lie to me.”
I picked up the photograph of Chloe's baby.
“I'm done.”
My attorney nodded.
“Then let's find the truth.”
By noon, we were back at St. Mary's.
This time, we met with the hospital's records administrator.
His name was Mr. Lewis.
He was a nervous-looking man with thinning hair and a tie that seemed too tight around his neck.
He kept adjusting his glasses.
“I've reviewed your request,” he said.
“And?”
“There are some records that are protected.”
“They're my medical records.”
“Some portions involve other patients.”
“I don't want other patients' private information.”
I placed my daughter's birth record on the table.
“I want every record that concerns my delivery, my daughter, the nursery, and the people who accessed those records.”
Mr. Lewis looked at my attorney.
“That's a fairly broad request.”
“It needs to be,” she replied.
He sighed.
“I can provide the standard medical file.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I already have the standard file.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Then what exactly are you asking for?”
“Everything that isn't in the standard file.”
His fingers stopped moving.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then he said:
“There was an administrative review.”
My heart skipped.
“When?”
“Shortly after the deliveries.”
“Why?”
“I'm not authorized to discuss internal reviews.”
My attorney leaned forward.
“Mr. Lewis, my client is asking about records relating to her own child.”
“I understand.”
“Then tell us why an administrative review was opened.”
He looked down.
“Because of a discrepancy.”
“What discrepancy?”
He didn't answer.
I felt anger rising.
“Was it my daughter?”
“No.”
“Was it another baby?”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
My heart began pounding.
“Whose?”
“I can't say.”
“Chloe?”
His face changed.
That was enough.
I leaned forward.
“What happened?”
He took a breath.
“There was a problem with identification.”
My fingers tightened.
“What kind of problem?”
“One of the newborn identification records did not match the corresponding maternal record.”
“Which newborn?”
He hesitated.
“Baby Girl Miller.”
Chloe's baby.
I felt cold.
“What didn't match?”
“The wristband number.”
I looked at my attorney.
“Which number?”
Mr. Lewis glanced at the file.
“Five-eight-two-zero.”
Chloe's baby's number.
“And what was it supposed to be?”
He paused.
“Five-eight-two-one.”
My heart stopped.
Lily's number.
For a few seconds, I couldn't breathe.
“You're saying Chloe's baby was wearing my baby's number?”
“No.”
He immediately shook his head.
“Not exactly.”
“Then explain it.”
“There were two records.”
He pulled out another sheet.
“Baby Girl Miller was initially logged under 5820.”
He pointed to the first line.
“Later, an entry was made referencing 5821.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
“Then why wasn't the error corrected?”
“It was.”
“When?”
“After the morning verification.”
I stared at him.
“Who performed the verification?”
“A nurse.”
“Which nurse?”
He looked at the document.
“Laura Carter.”
The room became silent.
I heard my own heartbeat.
“Laura Carter.”
“Yes.”
“Is she related to Daniel Carter?”
Mr. Lewis looked uncomfortable.
“I don't know.”
My attorney spoke.
“Was she an employee?”
“Yes.”
“Is she still employed?”
“No.”
“When did she leave?”
Mr. Lewis checked the file.
“Three months ago.”
“After the incident?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Why did she leave?”
“I can't discuss personnel matters.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course you can't.”
I stood.
“Where is she now?”
Mr. Lewis looked at me.
“I don't know.”
My attorney stopped me.
“Jennifer.”
I sat back down.
There was no point losing control.
Not yet.
I needed information.
Not emotion.
“Mr. Lewis,” I said calmly, “was Daniel Carter authorized to access the nursery?”
“No.”
“Was he authorized to handle newborn identification bands?”
“No.”
“Then why does the record say he replaced one?”
Mr. Lewis froze.
My attorney turned toward him.
“You know about that?”
He looked at the document.
“I wasn't aware of that notation.”
“It's right there.”
He picked it up.
His eyes moved across the page.
His expression changed.
“This record shouldn't be here.”
“Why?”
He didn't answer.
“Mr. Lewis.”
He swallowed.
“This is a preliminary record.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it was created before the final verification.”
“Then why wasn't it removed?”
“I don't know.”
“Who had access?”
“I don't know.”
“You keep saying you don't know.”
His voice became defensive.
“I'm telling you what I can confirm.”
I leaned back.
“Then confirm this.”
I pointed at the record.
“Was Daniel Carter in the nursery at 2:51 a.m.?”
He looked at the timestamp.
“Yes.”
“Was he authorized?”
“No.”
“Did anyone report him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
I nodded slowly.
Then I asked the question that had been sitting in my mind since the moment I entered the hospital.
“What happened at 3:18 a.m.?”
Mr. Lewis went completely still.
My attorney noticed.
“So there was an incident.”
He looked down.
“There was an alarm.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
“Was the nursery breached?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“The door was opened without proper authorization.”
“Who opened it?”
“We don't know.”
I stared at him.