PART 9: THE MAN BEHIND MY FATHER
“Dad?”
The word barely left my mouth before the gun pressed harder against the back of his head.
My father closed his eyes.
Not in fear.
In resignation.
As if he had known this moment was coming for years.
“Emily,” he said quietly, “don’t move.”
Detective Ruiz raised his weapon.
“Drop the gun.”
The man behind my father stepped farther into the red emergency light.
And my stomach dropped.
Thomas Caldwell.
My CFO.
His expensive suit was torn at the shoulder.
Blood darkened one cuff.
But his hand holding the gun was perfectly steady.
“Lower it, Aaron,” Thomas said.
Ruiz didn’t.
“Let him go.”
Thomas laughed softly.
“You’ve been saying that to the wrong people for nine years.”
My father looked at me.
He looked older than the man I had buried.
Thinner.
Tired in a way that seemed carved into his bones.
But alive.
My father was alive.
For six years, I had visited a grave with his name.
For six years, my mother had slept alone.
For six years, I had replayed our last conversation, wondering whether I had said enough.
And now he was ten feet from me.
With a gun against his skull.
I took one step forward.
Thomas moved the weapon.
“No.”
I stopped.
“Why is he alive?”
Thomas smiled.
“That’s your first question?”
“My father had a funeral.”
“Yes.”
“We buried someone.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
My father answered.
“A man named Walter Price.”
I stared at him.
“He was terminally ill. No immediate family.”
My throat tightened.
“You used a dying man’s body?”
Dad flinched.
“I didn’t choose that part.”
Thomas smiled.
“No, Robert prefers to tell himself he was morally opposed to the details.”
My father’s jaw tightened.
“Hawthorne arranged it.”
“Why?”
“Because officially dead men are difficult to subpoena.”
The words landed heavily.
Dad continued.
“After the crash in 2017, I knew they would eventually come after me directly. I tried to turn over what I had.”
“To Ruiz?”
“Yes.”
Ruiz looked away.
Dad continued.
“Evidence disappeared. People changed their stories. Witnesses vanished.”
“Nathan?”
My father’s face hardened.
“Nathan was supposed to vanish.”
“What does that mean?”
Thomas answered.
“It means Nathan took money from everyone.”
Dad snapped, “Shut up.”
Thomas laughed.
“You still protect people who would sell your daughter for a parking space.”
My pulse pounded.
“Where is Nathan?”
Thomas’s smile vanished.
“No idea.”
“And Mark?”
My father looked at me sharply.
“Mark is alive?”
I stared.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Suddenly Dad looked genuinely frightened.
“He was supposed to stay away from you.”
I almost laughed.
It came out broken.
“He married me.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I found out later.”
“When?”
“After I disappeared.”
“You let me marry him?”
“I couldn’t contact you.”
“You were alive.”
“I was being watched.”
“You were alive!”
My voice cracked through the room.
Years of grief exploded all at once.
“You let Mom bury you.”
“I know.”
“You let me think you missed my wedding.”
“I know.”
“You let me stand at your grave every birthday.”
His face broke.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Tears blurred everything.
“You don’t know what it was like.”
“Emily—”
“I talked to you.”
He went still.
“At the cemetery. I talked to you.”
Thomas shifted behind him.
For once, even he looked uncomfortable.
“I told you when I got promoted. I told you when Mark and I bought the house. I told you when I thought maybe we were ready for children.”
My hand covered my stomach.
“And you were alive.”
Dad’s eyes filled.
“I heard about the promotion.”
That almost destroyed me.
I stared.
“How?”
“I kept track of you.”
“From where?”
“Different places.”
“You watched me?”
“From a distance.”
“For six years?”
“Yes.”
My breath shook.
“And Mom?”
His face collapsed.
“I watched her too.”
I wanted to hit him.
I wanted to hug him.
I wanted to scream until the entire building came down around us.
Instead I whispered:
“She never stopped loving you.”
Dad looked away.
“That was the hardest part.”
“No. The hardest part was hers.”
He flinched.
Good.
I needed him to feel at least one piece of it.
Thomas sighed.
“As touching as this reunion is, we have limited time.”
Ruiz tightened his grip.
“You’re not leaving this room.”
Thomas looked at him.
“Aaron, you really still believe you’re the good cop in this story?”
Ruiz said nothing.
Thomas smiled.
“Tell Emily about November second.”
“I already did.”
“No. You told her you reached Robert after the crash.”
Dad looked toward Ruiz.
“What didn’t you tell her?”
Ruiz’s face changed.
Thomas laughed.
“There it is.”
I turned.
“Aaron?”
Ruiz kept his eyes on Thomas.
“Not now.”
“That usually means now.”
“Emily.”
“What happened after you reached Dad?”
Silence.
My father stared at him.
Then Ruiz finally said:
“I moved him.”
“To a hospital?”
“No.”
“Where?”
“A private house.”
“Why?”
“Because he said the hospital system was compromised.”
Dad nodded faintly.
“That part is true.”
“And then?”
Ruiz swallowed.
“I called someone I thought I could trust.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
Ruiz didn’t answer.
Thomas did.
“Charles Hawthorne.”
My stomach dropped.
Dad stared at Ruiz.
“You called Charles?”
“I didn’t know.”
Dad actually laughed.
A terrible, disbelieving sound.
“You called the man I told you I was investigating?”
“I thought he was helping build the case.”
“You idiot.”
Ruiz lowered his eyes.
Thomas smiled.
“And that one phone call destroyed everything.”
Dad looked as if he wanted to cross the room and strangle Ruiz himself.
Ruiz whispered:
“I know.”
Thomas continued.
“Hawthorne learned exactly where Robert was. Exactly what condition he was in. Exactly which evidence had survived.”
“You were working for Hawthorne?” I asked Ruiz.
“No.”
“Then how could you possibly not know?”
“Because Hawthorne had spent years positioning himself as a cooperating executive. He gave us records. He named lower-level people. He helped investigations.”
“People he wanted removed,” Dad said.
Ruiz nodded.
“Yes.”
Thomas laughed.
“Charles never hid corruption. He curated it.”
The sentence chilled me.
Hawthorne didn’t survive by denying everything.
He survived by sacrificing selected people.
Bad executives.
Dirty vendors.
Crooked doctors.
Enough wrongdoing to make himself look like the man cleaning up the mess.
While protecting the machine underneath.
Dad said:
“That night, Hawthorne sent men.”
Ruiz’s face tightened.
“I got Robert out through the back.”
“How?”
“There was an old drainage access.”
“And the evidence?”
“Most of it was taken.”
“By Hawthorne?”
“We assumed.”
Thomas smiled.
“Wrong again.”
My eyes moved toward him.
“Who took it?”
He looked directly at me.
“Your father.”
Dad’s expression went still.
Thomas continued.
“Robert had already replaced most of the files with copies.”
I looked at Dad.
“You knew someone would betray you.”
“Yes.”
“Ruiz?”
“I didn’t know who.”
Thomas pressed the gun against Dad’s neck.
“And while everyone chased counterfeit evidence, Robert built Room Seventeen.”
Dad corrected him.
“Rooms.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed.
My heart jumped.
“Plural?”
Dad looked at me.
“Seventeen was never one place.”
I thought about the basement.
The underground room Rachel found.
The cabin.
Safe-deposit boxes.
“The number is a system.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
Dad looked at Thomas.
Then at me.
“Seventeen.”
I stopped breathing.
“Seventeen rooms?”
“Seventeen evidence repositories.”
Thomas’s jaw clenched.
“So dramatic.”
Dad almost smiled.
“You spent nine years finding three.”
I suddenly understood why Hawthorne had never been able to destroy everything.
My father had broken the evidence apart.
Financial records in one location.
Confessions in another.
Identity documents somewhere else.
Access codes separated.
Different witnesses holding different pieces.
No single betrayal could erase the case.
“What’s in this room?” I asked.
Dad looked toward the shelves.
“The center.”
Thomas tightened his grip.
“What center?”
“You know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Dad looked at me.
“The master index.”
Ruiz’s expression changed.
“A directory to every repository.”
“Yes.”
Thomas’s breathing sharpened.
“And?”
Dad stayed silent.
Thomas shoved the gun harder.
“And?”
Dad looked at me.
“Proof of who ordered the pediatric trial records altered.”
My stomach turned.
“And who altered Dad’s medication?”
Dad stared at me.
“I don’t know.”
Thomas said:
“Yes, you do.”
Dad ignored him.
I looked toward the red folder on the desk.
“What’s in there?”
Dad’s eyes dropped.
“Emily, don’t.”
That was enough.
I reached for it.
Thomas snapped:
“Leave it.”
I stopped.
“What is it?”
Dad said:
“My insurance.”
Thomas laughed.
“His confession.”
I stared at Dad.
“Confession to what?”
He looked at me.
Then at my stomach.
Then at the floor.
And suddenly I knew whatever was coming would hurt.
“Dad.”
“I made choices.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I needed time.”
“For what?”
“To keep you alive.”
“Dad.”
“I helped them.”
The room went silent.
I felt cold.
“How?”
My father swallowed.
“After the crash, before I disappeared, Hawthorne offered me a deal.”
Thomas smiled.
“Finally.”
Dad continued.
“He wanted locations. Names. Copies.”
“And you gave them?”
“Some.”
Ruiz stared at him.
“You never told me that.”
“I didn’t trust you anymore.”
“What did you give Hawthorne?”
“Enough to convince him I was cooperating.”
My stomach tightened.
“And what did you get?”
“Time.”
“For yourself?”
“No.”
His eyes met mine.
“For you.”
I frowned.
“He wanted Mark close to you.”
Dad nodded.
“At first, yes.”
“So you agreed?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I redirected them.”
“How?”
Dad looked at Thomas.
Thomas’s jaw tightened.
Then Dad said:
“I convinced Hawthorne Mark was more useful as a financial access point than as surveillance.”
My mouth went dry.
“You gave him permission to use Mark?”
“No.”
“I gave Hawthorne a different target.”
“Who?”
Silence.
“Dad.”
He closed his eyes.
“My own brother.”
I froze.
“Uncle Daniel?”
My father nodded.
Daniel Harris.
Dad’s younger brother.
The uncle I barely remembered.
He died in 2018 in what everyone called a boating accident.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
Dad’s face crumpled.
“Daniel was involved.”
“Involved how?”
“He helped set up early shell companies.”
Thomas spoke quietly.
“He helped Hawthorne move the first money.”
Dad continued.
“When he realized children were being hurt, he wanted out.”
“So you gave Hawthorne Daniel?”
“I gave him information Daniel had already agreed to expose.”
“You made him a target.”
Dad’s voice broke.
“We made the decision together.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Emily—”
“No. You don’t get to make that sound noble.”
“I know.”
“Did Hawthorne kill him?”
Dad didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
My stomach turned.
“So Mom lost your brother. Then she lost you.”
“I know.”
“All to protect me.”
“Yes.”
“Did anybody ever ask whether I wanted that?”
Dad stared at me.
“You were my daughter.”
“That doesn’t make my life yours to rearrange.”
His eyes filled.
“No.”
For the first time, he didn’t defend himself.
“No, it doesn’t.”
Thomas sighed.
“Wonderful. Generational accountability. Can we proceed?”
Ruiz moved slightly.
Thomas noticed.
“Don’t.”
Ruiz stopped.
Thomas looked at me.
“Open the master index.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Your father does.”
Dad shook his head.
Thomas smiled.
“Then we use his daughter.”
My hand covered my stomach.
“You’re not touching me.”
“I don’t need to.”
Thomas nodded toward the far wall.
A black panel blinked.
I hadn’t noticed it before.
Dad’s face went pale.
“No.”
Thomas smiled.
“Yes.”
“What is that?”
Dad answered:
“Biometric authorization.”
“Voice?”
“More.”
The panel lit.
AUTHORIZED USERS:
ROBERT HARRIS
EMILY HARRIS BENNETT
MARK BENNETT
My eyes widened.
“Mark?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“I added him years ago.”
“After he betrayed you?”
“Before.”
Thomas laughed.
“The tragedy of trust.”
I stared at Dad.
“How do we open it?”
He shook his head.
“We don’t.”
Thomas fired.
The gunshot exploded through the room.
Dad collapsed.
I screamed.
“DAD!”
For one horrifying second, I thought he had been shot in the head.
Then I saw blood spreading across his upper arm.
Thomas had shot his shoulder.
Ruiz raised his weapon.
Thomas dragged Dad backward.
“One more movement and the next one goes higher.”
I dropped beside Dad.
He clenched his teeth.
“Stay back.”
“Dad—”
“I’m okay.”
“You’ve been shot.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve had worse.”
Thomas gestured toward the panel.
“Open it.”
I stood slowly.
“No.”
He aimed again.
“At your father first.”
I stared at him.
“Then Rachel.”
My blood chilled.
“You have her?”
A door behind the shelves opened.
Two men pushed Rachel inside.
Her face was bruised.
Blood stained her hair.
But she was walking.
Alive.
“Emily.”
I almost ran to her.
One man grabbed her shoulder.
Thomas smiled.
“Then Mark.”
Another door opened.
Mark stumbled inside.
Hands tied.
Face swollen.
His shirt soaked with blood at one side.
Ashley had been right.
Betrayal creates strange alliances.
Because the sight of him still hit me.
Not like a wife seeing her husband.
Like a human being seeing someone she once loved reduced to damage.
Mark looked at me.
Then at my father.
His face went completely still.
“Robert?”
Dad stared at him.
“Hello, Mark.”
Mark’s knees nearly gave out.
“You’re alive.”
“Apparently.”
Mark laughed once in disbelief.
Then his eyes filled.
“I thought—”
“You thought a lot of things.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“I was supposed to be.”
Thomas said:
“Reunion later.”
Mark turned.
“You don’t need Emily.”
“Yes, I do.”
“The index can be opened with Robert.”
Dad said:
“No.”
Mark looked at him.
“What changed?”
Dad’s eyes moved toward me.
“I changed authorization after I disappeared.”
Thomas smiled.
“Exactly.”
Mark’s face drained.
“What does it require?”
Dad didn’t answer.
Thomas did.
“All three.”
Me.
Dad.
Mark.
Three authorized users.
Three people tied together by the same nightmare.
My father.
My husband.
Me.
Thomas gestured toward the panel.
“Move.”
We approached.
The system activated.
ROBERT HARRIS: PALM AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.
Dad pressed his hand against the scanner.
Green.
MARK BENNETT: KEY AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.
One of Thomas’s men produced the brass key stamped 17.
He cut Mark’s wrists loose.
Mark inserted it.
Green.
Then:
EMILY HARRIS BENNETT: VOICE AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.
The microphone illuminated.
Dad looked at me.
“Don’t.”
Thomas aimed at Rachel.
“Speak.”
I stared at her.
Rachel shook her head.
“Don’t do it.”
Thomas pressed the gun against her temple.
My babies moved inside me.
Or maybe I imagined it.
Either way, my decision was made.
I stepped toward the microphone.
“What phrase?”
The system answered:
COMPLETE STATEMENT:
WHAT MATTERS MORE THAN BEING RIGHT?
Tears burned my eyes.
Dad had built childhood into a vault.
I whispered:
“Telling the truth when it costs me.”
Green.
All three indicators illuminated.
MASTER INDEX UNLOCKED.
The wall opened.
Behind it stood one narrow cabinet.
Thomas shoved Dad aside and rushed forward.
Inside:
One hard drive.
One sealed envelope.
One black ledger.
That was all.
Nine years.
People dead.
Lives destroyed.
My marriage built and shattered.
For three objects.
Thomas grabbed the ledger.
His expression changed.
Not triumph.
Confusion.
“What?”
He flipped pages.
Then faster.
“These are blank.”
Dad smiled through the pain.
Thomas stared.
Every page was empty.
He grabbed the envelope.
Opened it.
One sheet of paper.
He read it.
Then his face went white.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Dad looked at me.
Thomas crumpled the page.
Ruiz said:
“Read it.”
Thomas laughed.
But the laugh sounded afraid.
Then he threw the page at me.
I caught it.
My father’s handwriting:
IF CHARLES HAWTHORNE OR THOMAS CALDWELL HAS OPENED THIS CABINET, THE ARCHIVE HAS ALREADY BEEN TRANSMITTED.
My heart stopped.
Thomas lunged for the hard drive.
Dad said:
“Too late.”
Thomas connected it to a terminal.
A countdown screen appeared.
UPLOAD COMPLETE.
DESTINATIONS: 42.
Thomas stared.
“No.”
Dad smiled.
“You thought Room Seventeen stored evidence.”
Thomas looked at him.
“It distributes it.”
My chest tightened.
Forty-two destinations.
Law enforcement.
Journalists.
Attorneys.
Regulators.
Maybe families.
Maybe everyone Hawthorne had spent years controlling.
Thomas spun toward Dad.
“You son of a—”
Ruiz fired.
One shot.
Thomas’s gun flew from his hand.
He dropped, clutching his wrist.
The tactical team surged through the corridor.
Thomas’s men were tackled.
Rachel fell toward me.
I caught her.
Mark collapsed against the wall.
Dad leaned heavily against the desk.
For the first time all day, it felt like something might finally be over.
Then every phone in the room started ringing.
Ruiz’s.
Mine.
Thomas’s.
Even Mark’s confiscated phone lying on a table.
Simultaneously.
Dad’s face changed.
“What?”
He looked at the upload screen.
Then:
“No.”
“What?”
“The system isn’t supposed to do that.”
My phone displayed one incoming caller.
CHARLES HAWTHORNE.
Ruiz looked at me.
“Don’t answer.”
Dad whispered:
“Answer.”
I stared at him.
He nodded.
I accepted.
“Emily.”
Hawthorne’s voice was calm.
Almost warm.
“You finally opened it.”
“You lost.”
A soft laugh.
“Did I?”
“The archive was sent.”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s over.”
“No, Emily.”
He sounded almost amused.
“That was Robert’s evidence.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your father has spent nine years documenting what I did.”
Then:
“And I have spent nine years documenting what he did.”
Dad went completely still.
I looked at him.
Hawthorne continued.
“Ask Robert about Walter Price.”
I stared at Dad.
“The man buried under your name?”
“Yes.”
Dad said nothing.
Hawthorne continued.
“Ask him whether Walter volunteered.”
My blood turned cold.
“Dad?”
Dad’s face drained.
Hawthorne spoke gently.
“He didn’t.”
The room went silent.
My father closed his eyes.
“What did you do?” I whispered.
No answer.
“Dad.”
Hawthorne continued:
“Ask him about Daniel’s boat.”
Dad whispered:
“Stop.”
“Ask him why Daniel never reached the authorities.”
“Stop.”
“Ask him who cut the fuel line.”
My stomach dropped.
I stared at my father.
“Dad?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“No.”
Hawthorne said:
“Robert wanted to save you so badly, Emily, that eventually he became indistinguishable from the people he was fighting.”
I shook my head.
“You’re lying.”
“Probably.”
He laughed softly.
“But not about everything.”
Then:
“You received forty-two files.”
My heart pounded.
“Yes.”
“So did I.”
Dad looked terrified.
Hawthorne continued.
“And one of mine contains footage from March eighth, 2020.”
The date Dad supposedly died.
“What footage?”
“Your father choosing the body that would be buried in his place.”
My stomach turned.
Dad whispered:
“Emily, I can explain.”
I stepped backward.
Hawthorne said:
“Of course he can.”
Then my phone buzzed.
A video file.
I stared at the thumbnail.
My father.
Standing in a dim hospital room.
Beside a bed.
A dying man lying unconscious.
Walter Price.
Dad reached toward a machine.
The clip ended.
My hands shook.
“What did you do?”
Dad stepped toward me.
“Emily.”
“What did you do?”
“I did not kill him.”
“Then why were you touching the machine?”
“He was already dying.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I changed the identification band.”
My stomach twisted.
“You stole his identity.”
“Yes.”
“Did he agree?”
Silence.
I stepped back.
“No.”
Dad whispered:
“No.”
The hero I had mourned for six years fractured in front of me.
He had exposed terrible people.
He had saved evidence.
He had protected me.
And somewhere along the way, he had crossed lines I didn’t know how to uncross.
Hawthorne’s voice softened.
“That’s the problem with war, Emily. Everyone eventually gets blood on their hands.”
I looked at Thomas.
Mark.
Ruiz.
Dad.
Every man in that room had told himself some version of the same story.
I had to do this.
I had no choice.
I was protecting someone.
I was afraid.
One lie became another.
Until the truth barely had room left.
“What do you want, Hawthorne?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You already did what I wanted.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“You opened the archive.”
Dad stared at the terminal.
Then his face went white.
“No.”
He lunged toward the keyboard.
The screen changed.
UPLOAD COMPLETE.
SECONDARY PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.
Dad slammed commands into the terminal.
“Stop it.”
Ruiz moved closer.
“What secondary protocol?”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Robert!”
Dad looked at me.
Terrified.
“Emily, when I built this system, there was no secondary protocol.”
My blood froze.
“Then who added it?”
The speakerphone answered.
Hawthorne.
“I did.”
Dad stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“You really believed I spent nine years looking for a room I already knew how to enter?”
Dad stopped breathing.
Hawthorne laughed.
“Room Seventeen was never the prize.”
I whispered:
“What was?”
“You.”
My stomach dropped.
“Me?”
“Your biometrics.”
The room went silent.
Hawthorne continued.
“Your voiceprint completed the authentication chain.”
Dad looked toward the screen.
“No.”
“What did I authorize?”
Hawthorne answered:
“Everything.”
My pulse pounded.
“What does everything mean?”
“Every dormant account.”
Thomas’s face turned white.
He understood before I did.
“No.”
Hawthorne continued.
“Every holding company your husband created.”
Mark stared at the phone.
“What?”
“Every trust Robert concealed.”
Dad whispered:
“You can’t.”
“And every financial reserve Thomas thought belonged to him.”
Thomas shouted:
“You bastard!”
Hawthorne laughed.
“Thank you for opening the final lock, Emily.”
I stared at the terminal.
Numbers began flashing.
Accounts.
Transfers.
Offshore destinations.
Millions.
Then tens of millions.
Money moving everywhere.
Ruiz shouted for cybercrime.
Dad typed desperately.
“It’s draining the accounts.”
“To where?”
He looked at the destination.
And stopped.
“What?”
His face went completely blank.
“Dad?”
He slowly turned the monitor.
The beneficiary name appeared on every transfer.
EMILY HARRIS BENNETT.
My blood turned to ice.
“No.”
Mark stared.
“Emily—”
“I didn’t do this.”
Hawthorne said:
“Of course you didn’t.”
Then:
“But tomorrow morning, every federal agency in the country will see more than ninety million dollars transferred into entities under your identity.”
I couldn’t breathe.
The framing had never been about half a million dollars.
That had been practice.
The real plan was always bigger.
Hawthorne’s voice came through one final time.
“Congratulations, Emily.”
The transfer total stopped.
$94,716,208.
Then:
“You’re now the richest criminal in Texas.”
The call ended.
And before anyone could move, Detective Ruiz’s radio exploded with voices.
“Federal agents entering the building!”
“Warrants confirmed!”
“Target is Emily Bennett!”
I stared at him.
“No.”
Heavy footsteps thundered down the corridor.
Dad whispered:
“He planned this.”
Mark moved toward me.
Ruiz shouted:
“Don’t!”
Then the steel door burst open.
Men in federal tactical gear flooded Room Seventeen.
“EMILY BENNETT! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”
I raised my hands slowly.
An agent stepped forward with handcuffs.
And behind him, walking calmly into the room with two attorneys beside him, was Charles Hawthorne.
Not hiding.
Not running.
Smiling.
He looked at my father first.
Then Mark.
Then me.
And finally at my stomach.
“Emily,” he said softly, “you really should have listened when your husband told you those babies were going to ruin everything.”
I stared into his eyes.
And suddenly I realized something.
He knew about the twins before Mark ever told him.
Which meant someone in that ultrasound room had been working for Hawthorne.
And there had only been four people there.
Me.
Mark.
Ashley.
And Dr. Bennett………….
TO BE CONTINUED IN LAST PART…
