You are leaving Saint Jude Hospital with your medical license revoked and your career in ashes, my uncle declared before the ethics panel, standing beside his daughter with an arrogant smile.
The forced exit from Saint Jude felt like a public shaming. I was marched past bewildered visitors and hurried staff, every step deepening the sense of injustice. They put me in a hospital car, driven by a different guard, and dropped me off at my apartment building.
“Don’t return to the hospital grounds,” the guard warned, his voice flat. “Any attempt will be met with a call to the police for trespassing.”
Alone in my apartment, the silence was deafening. My bag, with its precious notes, was still on that dirty sub-basement floor. I was officially quarantined, cut off from my last chance to find the truth within the hospital walls.
But I still had the key. And I still had Clara.
I immediately called her. Her live-in nurse, Mrs. Henderson, answered, sounding flustered.
“Dr. Montgomery! I heard what happened. It’s terrible, absolutely terrible!”
“Is Clara available?” I asked, cutting to the chase.
A moment later, Clara’s frail voice came through the line, surprisingly strong. “Arthur has made his move, hasn’t he?”
“He’s barred me from the hospital, Clara,” I explained, the words tumbling out. “Psychological hold. They took my notes. I couldn’t get to the archive.”
“Foolish boy,” Clara muttered, a steely edge in her tone. “Always overplaying his hand.”
“The key is useless if I can’t get inside.”
“Oh, but you can, dear,” Clara said, a hint of something resembling a chuckle. “Arthur may be Chief of Surgery, but I am the majority owner of the Saint Jude Hospital Real Estate Foundation. He merely leases the ground from me. And I decide who has access to my property.”
My breath caught. “You can get me in?”
“Get you in?” she scoffed softly. “I’ll take you in myself. Inform security that I, Clara DeWitt, will be accessing the family archive in the sub-basement. My property. They will stand down.”
Within the hour, a private car arrived, sent by Clara. I was driven back to Saint Jude, this time with a very different kind of authority. Mrs. Henderson was with Clara, holding a thick, official-looking document.
We bypassed the main entrance. Clara, moving slowly but with undeniable presence, led the way to the very service elevator I’d been intercepted at earlier. The same two security guards from before were there, looking uncomfortable.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Clara announced, her voice surprisingly resonant. “I believe you have received my instructions?”
The head guard, still looking sheepish, nodded. “Yes, Ms. DeWitt. We have. Orders are rescinded. You and Dr. Montgomery have full access.”
Clara gave them a curt nod, then turned to me. “Lead the way, Iris. Your key, if you please.”
Down in the sub-basement, the air was heavy with the smell of dust and forgotten things. We navigated a maze of old pipes and shadowy corners until we found it: a heavy, reinforced door, unmarked save for a small, faded brass plate that read “DeWitt Family Archives – Est. 1922.”
My hand trembled as I inserted Clara’s rusted brass key. The lock clicked with a satisfying thud. The door swung open, revealing rows of shelves packed with ancient medical ledgers, all carefully numbered and dated. It was a historical graveyard.
Clara pointed to a specific section. “The 2008 records. Your mother’s trial.”
On a low shelf, nestled between thick volumes, was a sealed metal box. It was marked simply: “Clara-Louise DeWitt – 2008.” My mother’s name, etched into the steel.
I opened the box. Inside, resting atop an original handwritten surgical ledger from 2008, was a single, unopened envelope. It was thick, cream-colored, and sealed with an elaborate red wax stamp. The impression on the wax was unmistakable: my mother’s signet ring, a small fleur-de-lis.
It was addressed, in her elegant handwriting, to “The DeWitt Family Board of Trustees.”
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