CHAPTER 12 — THE WOMAN WHO SIGNED MY NAME
CHAPTER 12 — THE WOMAN WHO SIGNED MY NAME
Ethan's scream echoed through the corridor.
"CLAIRE!"
I spun around.
The steel door had slammed shut behind us.
I rushed toward it with Amelia in my arms.
"Ethan!"
No answer.
I pounded on the metal.
"Ethan!"
My mother grabbed my shoulder.
"Claire, stop."
I turned on her.
"Open the door."
"We can't."
"You locked him in there!"
"No."
"Then who did?"
She didn't answer.
I stared at her.
"Mom."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"I did."
Everything inside me went cold.
"You?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because if Ethan stays with you, they will use him to find the boy."
"My son?"
She nodded.
"They already know where he is."
I tightened my arms around Amelia.
"Then we have to go."
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because there is something you need to see."
She walked toward a door at the end of the hallway.
I followed.
Inside was a small office.
A desk.
A computer.
A wall covered with photographs.
And one enormous file cabinet.
My mother's hands were shaking.
"Thirty years ago, I signed something."
"What?"
"A contract."
"With the Whitmores?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
"You said you were forced."
"I was."
"Then why does your signature appear on every file?"
She looked at me.
"Because I signed more than once."
My stomach tightened.
"How many times?"
"Twenty-three."
I stared at her.
"Twenty-three?"
She nodded.
"For every child."
I looked at Amelia.
My heart hurt.
"You signed documents approving experiments on children."
"I signed documents to keep them alive."
"That's what everyone says."
"I know."
She opened the file cabinet.
Inside were hundreds of documents.
She pulled out one.
My name was written across the top.
CLAIRE BENNETT
Then another.
ELENA BENNETT
And beneath it:
AUTHORIZED GUARDIAN
I stared.
"You were my legal guardian."
"Yes."
"Then why did you sign my medical consent?"
"Because your father was gone."
"He wasn't."
"No."
She closed her eyes.
"He was already working with them."
I felt my chest tighten.
"You knew."
"Yes."
"You knew he was alive."
"Yes."
"You let me believe he was dead."
"Because if you knew, they would use you against him."
I shook my head.
"That doesn't make sense."
"It will."
She pulled out another folder.
This one was different.
Black.
No name.
Only a symbol:
M-17
My hands trembled.
"What is this?"
"Your real identity."
I opened it.
The first page contained my birth record.
But the name was not Claire Bennett.
It was:
SUBJECT M-01
I stared.
"What?"
My mother sat down.
"Claire wasn't your original name."
"Then what was it?"
"Maria."
I looked at her.
"My name was Maria?"
She nodded.
"Maria Elena Bennett."
I frowned.
"Why did you call me Claire?"
"Because they were searching for Maria."
"Who?"
"The Whitmores."
"Why?"
"Because Maria was the name your father gave you."
I felt dizzy.
"Why was that important?"
"Because he knew what you were."
"What am I?"
My mother looked at me.
"The first successful child."
I shook my head.
"The first?"
"Yes."
"Successful at what?"
She swallowed.
"Memory retention."
I stared.
"What?"
"The program wasn't initially about genetics."
"It was about memory."
I thought of the nightmares.
The locked rooms.
The surgical lights.
The voice.
"That's why I don't remember."
She nodded.
"They erased your memories repeatedly."
"Why?"
"Because you remembered things you weren't supposed to."
"What things?"
"The people."
"What people?"
"The children."
My blood froze.
"You remembered the children."
She pulled another photograph from the folder.
A little girl.
Me.
Five years old.
Standing beside a group of children.
Sixteen of them.
The same children I had found beneath the estate.
I stared at the photograph.
"I know them."
My mother nodded.
"You did."
"I've seen them before."
"Yes."
"When?"
"When you were five."
My hands shook.
"Why don't I remember?"
"Because Thomas ordered the memory wipe."
"Why?"
"Because you saw him kill one of them."
I couldn't breathe.
"What?"
My mother closed her eyes.
"You were the only child who remembered."
I looked at Amelia.
Then back at the photograph.
"Which child?"
My mother didn't answer.
"Which child did he kill?"
She whispered:
"Subject Zero."
I froze.
"The boy from the photograph?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
"The original male subject."
"Yes."
"But Thomas said he was alive."
"He lied."
I stared.
"Then who is the boy in the photograph?"
My mother looked at me.
"Your brother."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"You had a brother."
"Where is he?"
"Dead."
"Who killed him?"
She looked toward the door.
"Thomas."
A sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
My mother immediately shut the file.
"Someone is coming."
I grabbed Amelia.
"Who?"
"I don't know."
The handle moved.
My mother whispered:
"Hide."
We moved behind the filing cabinet.
The door opened.
A woman entered.
She wore a white coat.
I didn't recognize her.
She closed the door.
Then removed her glasses.
I knew her.
She had been in one of the photographs.
Dr. Rebecca Hale.
The woman who signed my medical records.
She looked around.
"Elena?"
No answer.
Then she saw the open cabinet.
Her face changed.
"Claire."
I stepped out.
"What do you want?"
She froze.
"You shouldn't be here."
"Everyone says that."
She looked at Amelia.
Then at my mother.
"She knows."
My mother nodded.
"She remembers."
Rebecca's face became pale.
"That's impossible."
"No."
My mother stepped forward.
"The memory blocks are failing."
Rebecca looked at me.
"How much do you remember?"
"Enough."
"Do you remember Room 17?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember the children?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember Thomas?"
I stared at her.
"Yes."
Rebecca closed her eyes.
"Then we are out of time."
"What does that mean?"
She walked toward the desk.
"The program has entered its final stage."
"What final stage?"
"The transfer."
"Transfer of what?"
She looked at Amelia.
"Her genetic memory."
I tightened my grip around my daughter.
"No."
Rebecca shook her head.
"You don't understand."
"I understand enough."
"Amelia isn't just genetically valuable."
"She's a carrier."
"Of what?"
"The memory trait."
I looked at my mother.
She nodded.
"She inherited it from you."
"So?"
"She can remember everything."
My heart stopped.
"Everything?"
"Everything you've forgotten."
Rebecca pulled out a tablet.
She showed me a video.
Amelia.
A few months old.
Lying in a crib.
Her eyes open.
A nurse stood over her.
The nurse said:
"Subject 17 recognizes the mother."
A second voice asked:
"Which mother?"
The nurse answered:
"Both."
I frowned.
"Both?"
Rebecca paused the video.
"Amelia recognizes two women as her mother."
My stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"Your mother."
"And?"
Rebecca looked at me.
"You."
I didn't understand.
"Why would she recognize my mother?"
"Because Elena was present during her birth."
"That doesn't explain it."
Rebecca lowered her voice.
"Elena carried Amelia."
I froze.
"What?"
My mother closed her eyes.
"I was pregnant with her."
I stared.
"You carried my daughter?"
"Yes."
"Then how did she become mine?"
My mother cried.
"Because you were her biological mother."
I couldn't breathe.
Rebecca explained:
"Elena was the gestational carrier."
I stared at my mother.
"You carried my baby."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because your body couldn't safely carry the pregnancy."
I remembered nothing.
"Then why did everyone tell me I gave birth to her?"
"Because you did."
I frowned.
"How?"
"An embryo was created from your egg."
She looked at me.
"Your mother carried it."
My mind struggled to process it.
"So Amelia is my biological daughter."
"Yes."
"And your biological granddaughter."
"Yes."
"But you gave birth to her."
"Yes."
I stared at Amelia.
Everything about my pregnancy had been a lie.
The pain.
The hospital.
The records.
The birth certificate.
Even my memories.
Then I remembered something.
The first night in the hospital.
A nurse telling me:
"Your mother was never here."
But she had been.
She had given birth to my daughter.
I looked at my mother.
"Why?"
"Because they were monitoring both of you."
"Who?"
"The Whitmores."
I suddenly understood.
They hadn't just wanted my child.
They wanted to study how my genetic traits transferred across generations.
Me.
My mother.
Amelia.
Three generations.
The perfect experiment.
I felt sick.
"What about my son?"
Rebecca went silent.
My mother looked away.
I knew.
"What?"
She whispered:
"He is different."
"How?"
"He was created from the male line."
"Whose?"
She didn't answer.
"Tell me."
"Thomas."
My blood froze.
"Thomas is his biological father?"
"No."
She shook her head.
"His genetic material."
I stared.
"That's impossible."
"It's not."
Rebecca stepped forward.
"Your son was created using preserved genetic material from Thomas."
I felt the room spin.
"Ethan isn't his father."
"No."
"Michael isn't his father."
"No."
"Then my son..."
"Carries Thomas's genetic line."
I looked at Amelia.
Then my son.
One child from my blood.
One child carrying Thomas's.
And suddenly I understood why Thomas wanted them.
He didn't want a family.
He wanted a controlled bloodline.
The door burst open.
Ethan stumbled inside.
His face was bruised.
Blood ran from his forehead.
I rushed toward him.
"Ethan!"
"I'm fine."
"Who did this?"
He looked at my mother.
"Her."
My mother lowered her eyes.
"You locked me in there."
"To protect Claire."
"From me?"
"From what you know."
Ethan looked at me.
"I know where Amelia was taken."
My heart stopped.
"Where?"
He took a breath.
"The old maternity ward."
"We're already there."
"No."
He shook his head.
"The real one."
"What do you mean?"
"There is another level."
He pointed toward the floor.
"Under this hospital."
My mother looked terrified.
"That's impossible."
Ethan laughed bitterly.
"That's what they want you to think."
He pulled out a key.
"The original Room 17 is underneath us."
Rebecca stared.
"Who gave you that?"
Ethan answered:
"Daniel."
My heart stopped.
"Daniel is alive?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"He told me to give you this."
Ethan handed me a folded note.
I opened it.
Only one sentence was written.
CLAIRE, DON'T TRUST THE WOMAN WHO SIGNED YOUR NAME.
I looked at my mother.
Then Rebecca.
"Which woman?"
Neither answered.
The lights flickered.
A phone began ringing.
Rebecca's phone.
She answered.
"Hello?"
Her face changed.
She handed it to me.
A man's voice came through.
Thomas.
"Claire."
I didn't respond.
"I know what you found."
I tightened my grip around Amelia.
"What do you want?"
"The same thing I've always wanted."
"My children?"
"No."
"Then what?"
He laughed.
"Your signature."
I frowned.
"My signature?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because thirty years ago, your mother signed away your identity."
My mother closed her eyes.
"And now..."
Thomas continued:
"...you are going to sign it back."
The call ended.
A printer suddenly started behind us.
One sheet of paper emerged.
I picked it up.
At the top:
TRANSFER OF PARENTAL AUTHORITY
Underneath:
CLAIRE BENNETT
My signature was already printed.
I stared.
"I didn't sign this."
My mother whispered:
"That's the point."
I looked at her.
"What?"
She stepped closer.
"They don't need your signature anymore."
"Why?"
"Because they already have it."
I felt cold.
"How?"
She pointed toward the folder.
"The woman who signed your name..."
She swallowed.
"...wasn't me."
I stared.
"What?"
My mother whispered:
"I never signed those documents."
Silence.
I looked at the signatures again.
The handwriting.
The name.
The authorization.
All of it.
Fake.
Someone had been signing my name for thirty years.
Someone who knew exactly how I wrote.
Someone who had access to every record.
Someone who had been pretending to be me.
I looked at Rebecca.
She was trembling.
"Who?"
My mother whispered:
"The woman who was in your hospital room the night Amelia was born."
I remembered her.
The nurse.
The woman with the silver necklace.
The woman who had told me my daughter was dead.
I suddenly remembered one detail.
She had looked exactly like me.
Same eyes.
Same hair.
Same birthmark.
I stared at my mother.
"Who was she?"
My mother answered:
"Your twin."
My blood froze.
"I don't have a twin."
She looked at me through her tears.
"You did."
Then the door behind us opened.
A woman stepped inside.
She looked exactly like me.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Same scar above the eyebrow.
She smiled.
And said:
"Hello, Claire."
My mother whispered:
"Maria."
The woman smiled wider.
"Or should I say..."
May you like
She looked at Amelia.
"...Mom?"
