Chapter Fourteen
The drive into town was quiet enough that Maya could hear the wipers scraping over the ice-encrusted windshield.
Freezing rain tapped against the SUV, turning the world beyond the windows into smeared gray—dark trees, slush-slick pavement, the occasional blur of headlights passing the other way.
Will drove with caution toward the station, his eyes flicking between the road and the mirrors. Behind them, JT and Rachel followed.
Asa sat in the back seat beside Maya. He wasn’t crowding her, but he wasn’t far enough away to feel like a stranger, either. His knee brushed hers every time the SUV hit a rut. It shouldn’t have helped. Somehow, it did.
“You holding up okay?” His voice came from just over her shoulder, low enough that the words didn’t have to fight past the engine noise.
“I don’t know what that means anymore,” she said, watching the blur of storefronts as they passed the first edge of town.
His arm rested along the back of the seat, not touching her but close enough that if she needed to, she could lean into him. “You’re here,” he said. “That counts.”
She swallowed. “The name still feels so fragile,” she admitted. “Vanessa. I keep saying it to myself. Like if I stop, I’ll lose it.”
“You won’t,” Asa said. “He didn’t get that far.”
“Feels like he’s been trying to,” she murmured.
“Trying,” Asa agreed. “Not succeeding.”
Will turned into the small municipal complex where the police station, library, and a handful of shared offices clustered together.
The adoption agency squatted near the end, a brick box with narrow windows and a too-cheerful green door.
He eased the police cruiser into a spot near the entrance, the engine idling for a second before he shut it off.
JT and Rachel pulled in beside them.
Will got out and automatically scanned the parking lot. Asa followed, rounding the back of the vehicle to open Maya’s door.
She stepped out, her boots slipping on the thin skin of ice.
“Easy,” he said as he steadied her.
“Thanks. I’m fine.”
His hand stayed near her elbow anyway, not quite touching, but close enough to catch her if she stumbled.
Inside, the agency's waiting room hummed with fluorescent lights and smelled like overheated coffee and old carpet. Beige walls, brown chairs, and a fake plant in the corner completed the picture. A crooked Christmas wreath drooped on one wall, its red bow wilted.
The receptionist looked up as the door opened, her gaze skimming over Will’s uniform. “Can I help you, Chief?”
“We called this morning about reviewing Maya Callahan’s adoption file.”
Recognition flickered. “Oh, yes. Of course. Please, come with me.” The receptionist guided them back to a small waiting area. “Ms. Donnelly will be right with you,” she said, disappearing behind a door.
Maya sat with her spine too straight, her hands clutched tight in her lap. The mirror on the opposite wall reflected the exhaustion around her eyes, making her look breakable. Asa took the seat beside her, angling himself between her and the entrance.
“If this becomes too much,” he murmured, “you tap my hand. We walk out. No questions asked.”
She shook her head, eyes locked on the frosted glass door. “I can do this. I need to know.”
Before he could reply, Ms. Donnelly stepped inside—a woman in her late fifties with kind eyes and a cardigan with a loose button. “Chief Kelly,” she greeted, shaking Will’s hand. “And you must be Maya Callahan. Thank you for coming in. My office is this way.”
They followed her into a snug room crowded with filing cabinets. A ceramic angel sat on her desk beside a mug that read Best Aunt Ever.
“Before we begin,” she said gently, “I need to explain that this is highly unusual. Adoption records in this state are sealed. However, your consent, coupled with the chief’s request in connection with an active case, gives me additional latitude.”
Will nodded. “We appreciate any help you can give.”
Ms. Donnelly logged into her system. “We’ll start with what’s recorded online. I’ll need your legal name.” She glanced up. “Maya Callahan, correct?”
Maya nodded. “That’s correct.”
Ms. Donnelly’s fingers clicked over the keyboard.
“The final adoption decree is here,” Ms. Donnelly said.
“Which is good. That means everything after placement was processed properly.” She stopped.
“That’s strange. I don’t see anything about the birth mother or parents whatever the case might have been at the time. ”
Maya swallowed. “My birth mother’s name is Vanessa Warren. There’s nothing in the file about her?”
Ms. Donnelly frowned. “Let me try that name.” She typed it in.
“Nothing. Maybe a variation.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard.
“Still nothing.” She sat back slowly, worry lining her face.
“We should have something on the birth mother. A child doesn’t enter the adoption system without some notation about why.
Even emergency placements have documentation.
A social worker must complete it within forty-eight hours.
There’s a notation about you being in the hospital when you met your adopted parents, and somehow you remembered your name as Maya, but nothing else.
” Ms. Donnelly stood abruptly. “Let me check the physical archive. What’s on the computer is just a synopsis of what should be in the actual physical file. ”
Asa pushed from his chair and pulled Maya up beside him. “We’re coming with you.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Yes, it’s this way.” She led them all down a long corridor before stepping into the archive room, which hummed with a dehumidifier, cold and sterile. Rows of metal drawers lined the walls.
Will, JT, and Rachel filed in after Asa and Maya.
“Intakes from your timeframe are in this cabinet,” Ms. Donnelly said, unlocking it. She pulled open the drawer for the appropriate year. Manila folders sat in neat alphabetical rows with numbers handwritten at the top of each tab. She flipped through several, muttering as she scanned.
Her movements slowed. Stopped. She touched an empty half-inch gap between folders. “There’s nothing here, and there should be a physical file here,” she muttered. “And your case number is missing.”
“How is that possible?” Maya asked in disbelief.
“I don’t know. We do not skip numbers. Yours is missing.” She checked the next drawer, then the one above it. Nothing. Her face paled. “Someone removed the physical file. What we have on the computer is everything.”
“Could it be misfiled?” Maya asked.
“No. This case number should sit between two others. Everything is sequential…and this gap wasn’t here during our last audit.”
“When was that?” JT asked.
Ms. Donnelly glanced his way. “Five years ago.”
The file had been removed deliberately.
“Were you working here back then?” Maya asked.
She confirmed she was. “But I wasn’t in charge. That was Kathy Zalansky.”
“Maybe she can tell us more about how this happened,” Asa suggested.
Ms. Donnelly’s expression saddened. “I don’t think so. She died from a heart attack not long after that time.”
Another mysterious death. They were mounting.
Ms. Donnelly grabbed a battered ledger from the top shelf.
“Each intake is recorded manually before the paper file is created.” She flipped through pages until she reached the missing number.
“There,” she whispered, then frowned. “That’s strange.
There’s no signature. I have no idea who logged this in or why the physical folder is missing.
It’s as if someone wanted to erase every official trace of this child’s origin, and they succeeded except for what’s on the computer.
I’m guessing they couldn’t get to it; otherwise, it would be gone as well. ”
“Do you have anywhere else it might be?” Asa asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Ms. Donnelly said sadly. “You existed in our system. You came through our doors, but someone made sure your past never followed you forward.”
Asa touched Maya’s arm. “You remembered your name back then, and now you’ve remembered your mother’s,” he said quietly. “That is the one thing that can’t be erased.”
She struggled against shedding tears before nodding.
“And now we know,” Asa continued, his voice low yet fierce. “Someone destroyed records to keep her hidden. That tells us more than a file ever would.”