Chapter 6 - THE SECRET HIDDEN IN MY MEDICAL FILE|
I didn't recognize my apartment when we returned.
Nothing had been overturned.
The furniture was exactly where I'd left it.
My dishes were stacked beside the sink, and the blanket I'd used the previous night lay folded across the couch.
But the room felt violated.
Someone had entered my home, touched my belongings, and stood in front of the painting I'd spent months trying to finish.
And they had left a message meant to remind me that even my final days belonged to somebody else.
Lucian insisted on entering first.
Marco followed him while I waited in the hallway with a woman from the building's security staff.
I hated how frightened I felt.
I'd spent years walking through hospital corridors without knowing whether I'd survive the next procedure.
Yet standing outside my own front door made my stomach twist.
Finally, Lucian appeared.
“It's safe to come in.”
I stepped across the threshold.
My painting stood beside the window.
Across the unfinished blue water, someone had written in thick red marker.
SEVEN DAYS WAS A GENEROUS OFFER.
I couldn't breathe.
The letters cut through my beautiful orange sunset.
My hands flew to my mouth.
“No.”
Lucian turned toward me.
“Amelia.”
“No, no, no.”
I moved past him toward the canvas.
“Please.”
I touched the edge of the frame.
The paint had dried months earlier, but the marker was fresh.
I'd spent afternoons working on the sky when I was too weak to leave the apartment.
I'd painted while waiting for test results.
I'd painted after losing my hair.
I'd painted on days when holding a brush was the only thing that made me feel like myself.
And now a stranger had ruined it.
A sob escaped me.
“Why would someone do this?”
Lucian didn't answer.
I sank onto the floor.
“It's just a painting.”
My voice broke.
“It's just a stupid painting.”
He knelt beside me.
“No.”
I wiped my face.
“It doesn't matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
I shook my head.
“People are dying every day, and I'm crying over a canvas.”
He looked at the ruined painting.
“Someone deliberately destroyed something you loved.”
His voice was quiet.
“You're allowed to be angry.”
I stared at him.
Angry.
It was a feeling I'd spent years swallowing.
Doctors encouraged patience.
Friends encouraged gratitude.
Relatives encouraged acceptance.
Everyone seemed comfortable with my sadness, but nobody knew what to do with my anger.
I looked at the red letters again.
Then I stood.
“I'm furious.”
Lucian rose with me.
“Good.”
“Not good.”
“Better than believing you deserved this.”
I turned toward him.
“I didn't deserve any of this.”
“No.”
“I didn't deserve to get sick.”
“No.”
“I didn't deserve to spend thirty-one years being careful just to find out I might die before I've done anything I wanted.”
His expression softened.
“No, Amelia.”
I picked up a cushion and threw it across the room.
It struck the wall and fell behind the couch.
Then I started crying again.
Lucian didn't try to stop me.
He stood there until the anger had passed through me.
When I finally grew quiet, he held out his hand.
I took it.
Marco entered a moment later.
“Boss, the building cameras caught someone using a maintenance access card.”
“Who?”
“We're checking the identity.”
I looked up.
“What about my medical records?”
“They're gone,” Marco answered.
“Only the blue folder?”
“As far as we can tell.”
A terrible thought occurred to me.
“Why would anyone want my records?”
Lucian exchanged a glance with Marco.
I noticed.
“Don't do that.”
He looked back at me.
“Do what?”
“Decide what I'm allowed to know.”
Marco remained silent.
Lucian considered me for a moment.
Then he nodded.
“You're right.”
He guided me toward the couch.
“There may be a connection between your doctor and my sister's treatment.”
I went cold.
“What kind of connection?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Then what do you know?”
Lucian reached into his coat.
He removed a faded photograph.
It showed a young woman standing outside a hospital, smiling beside a much younger Lucian.
She had dark hair, bright eyes, and the same stubborn expression he wore when he disagreed with me.
“That was Sofia,” he said.
I studied the photograph.
“She was beautiful.”
“She was.”
He turned it over.
On the back, someone had written a date.
October 17, 2015.
“That's when she was admitted for her final treatment.”
I looked at him.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Because something about your case reminds me of what happened to her.”
I folded my arms.
“Lucian, please don't make this about a conspiracy because you lost someone.”
Pain flashed across his face.
I immediately regretted the words.
But he didn't get angry.
“You have every reason to question me.”
He put the photograph away.
“That's why I've arranged for an independent medical review.”
I looked down.
“Without asking?”
“I contacted the specialist to discuss availability.”
“Your records won't be shared unless you authorize it.”
That mattered more than he probably understood.
For years, my body had belonged to appointments, consent forms, and people wearing white coats.
I wanted one decision that was entirely mine.
“Who is the specialist?”
“Dr. Evelyn Hart.”
I knew the name.
She was a respected physician at a major New York medical center, known for reviewing unusually complicated inflammatory and vascular disorders.
I'd once considered requesting an appointment.
Then I'd seen the waiting list.
“She won't have time for me.”
“She has agreed to review the records tomorrow if you consent.”
I stared at him.
“How did you manage that?”
“I asked.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
He gave me a faint smile.
“I asked very persuasively.”
I sighed.
Then I looked toward the painting.
“Will she tell me the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it's bad?”
“Especially then.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
Lucian's shoulders relaxed slightly.
Then my phone vibrated.
An email appeared from an unfamiliar sender.
There was no subject.
Only an attachment.
I opened it before anyone could stop me.
The document contained a single scanned page.
At the top was my full name.
AMELIA GRACE CARTER.
Below it was a hospital identification number.
And beneath that, in bold letters, were four words.
SUBJECT RESPONSE — TRIAL 47.
I stared at the screen.
“What is this?”
Lucian moved closer.
I handed him the phone.
His expression changed instantly.
He read the page twice.
Then he looked at Marco.
“Get our attorney.”
Marco stepped into the hallway.
Lucian continued scrolling through the document.
There were several dates, unfamiliar abbreviations, and references to medication I'd received over the previous eighteen months.
Near the bottom was a signature.
DR. NATHANIEL VOSS.
My knees weakened.
“I never agreed to be part of a trial.”
Lucian looked at me.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
My voice rose.
“I signed treatment consent forms, but nobody ever told me I was Subject Forty-Seven.”
He kept reading.
Then his fingers stopped moving.
“What?” I demanded.
“Lucian, tell me.”
He lifted his eyes.
“There's another name.”
“Whose?”
He turned the phone toward me.
Listed beneath my medical history was an earlier patient.
SUBJECT 12 — SOFIA MORETTI.
I felt the room tilt.
Lucian stared at his sister's name.
For eleven years, he had believed Sofia died because her disease progressed beyond treatment.
Now her name appeared in the same unexplained medical program as mine.
A chill passed through me.
“What does that mean?”
Lucian's face had gone pale.
“I don't know.”
He looked at the document again.
“But we're going to find out.”
Then another email arrived.
This time, there was no attachment.
May you like
Only one sentence.
“ASK LUCIAN WHAT HIS FAMILY PAID TO KEEP SUBJECT TWELVE QUIET.”
