Chapter 6 – The Hospital Records
Chapter 6 – The Hospital Records
The sound of Clara's laughter echoed through the basement.
Soft.
Almost musical.
The kind of laugh that belonged at a dinner party—not in a dark room where a terrified little girl had once scratched Daddy Help Me into brick.
I didn't move.
Neither did she.
For a long moment, we stood in complete darkness.
Then the basement light flicked on.
Clara stood halfway down the stairs, wearing a silk robe over her pajamas.
Her arms were folded casually across her chest.
She smiled as though she'd caught me sneaking cookies instead of investigating what looked like a crime scene.
"I wondered how long it would take."
My heartbeat remained steady.
Years in trauma medicine had trained me well.
The calmer I looked, the less people realized I was thinking.
"I couldn't sleep," I said.
"So you decided to explore the basement?"
"I was looking for old Christmas decorations."
She laughed again.
"At one in the morning?"
I shrugged.
"I work night shifts."
She held my gaze for several seconds.
Long enough to make most people uncomfortable.
Then she smiled.
"Well... now you've seen it."
I looked toward the fireplace.
"It smells like smoke."
"It should."
Her expression didn't change.
"There was a fire."
"I read Daniel's death certificate."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
For the first time since I'd met her...
Clara's smile faded.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then it returned.
"You've been reading my private files."
"I was worried."
"You should have asked."
"I didn't think you'd tell me."
Silence settled between us.
Finally she sighed.
"It was the worst night of my life."
She looked toward the fireplace.
"The fire started accidentally."
"How?"
"I don't know."
"You were there."
"I was asleep."
"What about Daniel?"
"He tried to save us."
She lowered her eyes.
"He couldn't save himself."
Her voice cracked just enough to sound believable.
Almost perfect.
Almost.
Except one detail bothered me.
Emergency responders almost always documented the fire's origin.
Yet Clara claimed she had no idea how it started.
Someone who had survived a deadly house fire usually remembered every second.
Every smell.
Every scream.
Every spark.
Unless...
They were choosing not to.
The following morning, I reported for my shift at the University of Colorado Hospital.
For the first time in years, the emergency department felt familiar again.
Predictable.
Controlled.
Broken bones.
Chest pain.
Car accidents.
Problems medicine could actually solve.
Unlike the one waiting at home.
Halfway through the morning, while reviewing patient charts, I found myself staring at the hospital's electronic medical record system.
A dangerous thought crossed my mind.
Daniel Brooks had died in a hospital.
If he'd been transferred here...
There might still be records.
I knew the rules.
Accessing a chart without a legitimate clinical reason violated hospital policy.
It could cost me my job.
Possibly my nursing license.
But if Daniel had said anything before he died...
If he'd named someone...
If he'd tried to protect Harper...
Those records might be the only evidence left.
I stared at the keyboard for almost a full minute.
Then I typed.
BROOKS, DANIEL
The search returned one result.
My pulse quickened.
Admitted eight years earlier.
Transferred from Denver Fire Rescue.
Status: Deceased.
I clicked the chart.
Smoke inhalation.
Second-degree burns.
Carbon monoxide poisoning.
Blood pressure unstable.
Everything matched the death certificate.
Then I opened the physician's notes.
The emergency physician documented that Daniel had regained consciousness briefly.
My eyes raced down the page.
"Patient repeatedly requests to speak with law enforcement."
I stopped breathing.
The next line.
"Patient states: 'Protect my daughter.'"
My hands began to shake.
There it was.
He had tried.
He knew.
I scrolled further.
The note continued.
"Patient attempted to provide additional statement but became hypoxic and unresponsive."
My heart sank.
Was that all?
Then another document caught my attention.
Trauma Social Work Consultation
I opened it.
Blank.
Not empty.
Deleted.
The consultation had clearly existed.
The time stamp remained.
The author remained.
Everything else had been removed.
I frowned.
Hospital records weren't supposed to disappear.
Even corrections left audit trails.
Unless...
Someone with administrative authority had altered them years ago.
"Ethan?"
I slammed the monitor closed.
Dr. Reynolds stood behind me holding two coffees.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I..."
I searched for an excuse.
He glanced at my screen.
His expression changed.
"Daniel Brooks?"
I stared at him.
"You know him?"
Reynolds was silent for several seconds.
Finally, he pulled a chair beside me.
"I wasn't your attending back then."
"You remember the case?"
"I remember the rumors."
"What rumors?"
He lowered his voice.
"There was talk that the police wanted another interview before he died."
"What happened?"
"They never got one."
"Why?"
"He crashed."
I swallowed.
"And the social work note?"
Reynolds frowned.
"What social work note?"
"It was deleted."
His face tightened.
"Hospital documentation isn't supposed to disappear."
"I know."
He looked around the nurses' station before speaking again.
"There was an internal investigation years ago."
My pulse jumped.
"About Daniel?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"A staff member."
"Who?"
"I don't remember."
He frowned.
"Wait..."
His eyes narrowed as he searched his memory.
"...I think her name was Linda."
Linda.
Another name.
Another thread.
I opened the employee directory.
No Linda worked in Trauma anymore.
Retired?
Transferred?
Gone?
I searched archived staff lists.
There.
Linda Martinez, LCSW
Trauma Social Worker.
Employment ended seven years ago.
No forwarding information.
No email.
Nothing.
Almost as though she had vanished too.
That evening, after my shift ended, I drove home carrying the weight of everything I'd learned.
Daniel had tried to tell the police something.
Someone had erased a social worker's notes.
Another person connected to Clara had disappeared.
The pattern was becoming impossible to ignore.
As I pulled into the driveway, Harper was sitting on the front porch with Scout.
Waiting.
She smiled when she saw me.
A genuine smile.
The first one I'd seen all day.
"I drew something."
She handed me a folded piece of paper.
Inside was a picture of three people.
Me.
Harper.
Scout.
Holding hands.
No Clara.
At the top she'd written carefully in second-grade handwriting:
My Safe Family
A lump formed in my throat.
"You made me hair," I said, smiling.
She giggled.
"You needed some."
I laughed softly.
For a moment, she looked like every other seven-year-old.
Carefree.
Happy.
Then the front door opened.
Clara stepped outside.
The smile vanished from Harper's face before it had fully formed.
She folded into herself again.
"Harper," Clara called pleasantly.
"What did I tell you about making people wait outside?"
"I'm sorry, Mommy."
Harper hurried past us into the house.
Clara watched her disappear.
Then turned toward me.
"I got an interesting phone call today."
Every instinct inside me sharpened.
"From who?"
"Hospital administration."
My blood ran cold.
"They said someone accessed an old patient file."
She smiled.
"They also said that someone was you."
She stepped closer until only inches separated us.
"I wonder..."
Her voice was almost a whisper.
May you like
"...what exactly you're looking for."
End of Chapter 6
