CHAPTER 21 THE MAN ABOVE REEVES
His name was Dr. Arthur Vale.
Thomas had known him in college.
Vale studied behavioral medicine before establishing private maternity clinics across Oregon and Washington.
He presented himself as a philanthropist.
He offered medical care to women with nowhere else to go.
Then he collected information.
Family wealth.
Inheritance rights.
Mental health histories.
Unmarried pregnancies.
Children who could be controlled through guardianships or false adoption agreements.
“Reeves provided political protection,” Ortiz said. “Diane located families. Vale designed the system.”
“And Rachel had his child?” Claire asked.
Thomas looked sick.
“I don’t know whether it was consensual.”
Nora left the room.
Claire followed her.
I remained with Thomas.
“You knew this man.”
“I knew the person he pretended to be.”
“Did he know Rachel as a child?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
The answer filled me with a rage I could barely contain.
“How old was she when they met?”
“Sixteen.”
I struck the kitchen counter with my fist.
Thomas did not stop me.
“He offered her a job at one of his clinics,” he continued. “I told her not to accept. Diane encouraged it.”
“Why?”
“Because Vale paid her.”
Ortiz began making calls.
Arthur Vale had supposedly died twelve years earlier in a private plane crash.
The aircraft had disappeared over the Pacific.
No body had been recovered.
Another convenient death.
Nora returned after several minutes.
Her eyes were dry.
“What did he look like?”
Ortiz showed her the photograph.
Nora stared at Arthur Vale.
Then she sat down.
“I’ve seen him.”
Thomas gripped the table.
“Where?”
“At Margaret’s funeral.”
Nora described an older man standing beneath a tree across from the cemetery.
He had not approached her.
He simply watched.
After the funeral, she found the tape recorder and bus ticket in Margaret’s house.
“He wanted me to come here,” she said.
Ortiz nodded.
“Or someone did.”
Rachel House was placed under federal protection.
Nora moved into a secure room on the second floor.
Claire stayed with her that night.
I returned home with Grace.
At 2:06 a.m., my phone rang.
It was Claire.
“Someone pulled the fire alarm.”
I could hear shouting behind her.
“Is there a fire?”
“No smoke. But the emergency doors opened automatically.”
“Where is Nora?”
“She was sleeping.”
A crash sounded through the phone.
Claire stopped speaking.
“Claire?”
I heard footsteps.
Then a man’s voice.
“Put the phone down.”
I grabbed my keys and ran toward the door.
“Claire!”
The call disconnected.
Ortiz reached Rachel House before I did.
One side entrance stood open.
Two officers were unconscious near the stairwell.
Claire was found in the hallway with blood on her forehead.
She was conscious.
Nora’s room was empty.
The window had been opened, but there was no ladder outside.
No tracks.
No vehicle captured on street cameras.
Someone had taken her through the building.
Ortiz searched the room.
On Nora’s pillow lay a photograph of Grace.
It had been taken that evening through our kitchen window.
Written across the bottom were six words.
ONE DAUGHTER FOR ANOTHER, RACHEL.
Claire stared at the message.
“They think Nora is Rachel.”
“No,” I said.
May you like
I looked at Grace’s photograph.
“They’re telling us Rachel is alive.”
