Chapter 7 - A Mother’s Broken Heart: Mai Demands the Truth
We reached the base of the east wing terrace, keeping low behind the stone balustrade. The terrace was dusted with a light powder of fresh snow. Overhead, the warm light from the second-floor window spilled out across the stone, illuminating the delicate silhouette of the girl sitting above us.
"How do we get up there?" I whispered, my heart thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"There’s an exterior fire escape stairwell around the corner," Daniel murmured, pointing toward a dark steel structure bolted to the red brick wall fifty feet away. "It leads directly to the second-floor sunroom. From there, it’s a short hallway to Room 214."
We moved quickly, keeping our footfalls silent against the snow. Daniel tested the lower rung of the steel counterbalanced ladder, pulling it down with a muted metallic creak. He helped me up first before climbing behind me, his heavy work boots gripping the frozen steel steps.
When we reached the second-floor landing, Daniel pulled a small brass key from his coat pocket.
"Where did you get that?" I asked.
"When I was here three weeks ago pretending to service the air handlers," Daniel whispered, "I copied the maintenance master key for the exterior fire doors. Dad always said: 'Never enter a fight without knowing every exit.'"
He inserted the key into the heavy steel fire door. The lock gave way with a satisfying, oily click. Daniel eased the door open half an inch, peering into the carpeted hallway.
The corridor was silent, illuminated only by soft, recessed nightlights along the baseboards. The air smelled of hospital-grade disinfectant, lavender air freshener, and the faint, unmistakable aroma of institutional meals. From down the hall, the quiet murmur of a television in the staff lounge could be heard.
"Clear," Daniel breathed, waving me inside.
We moved down the hallway, our rubber-soled boots making almost no sound on the thick commercial carpeting. We passed doors with discreet brass numbers: 210, 212… 214.
Daniel placed his hand on the handle of Room 214. He turned it slowly and pushed the door inward.
The room was spacious, furnished more like an upscale boutique hotel room than a psychiatric ward, but the subtle signs of captivity were everywhere: windows that opened only two inches, no sharp edges on the furniture, and a heavy magnetic lock mounted above the doorframe.
Sitting in an armchair beside the window was a young woman.
She wore a soft cream-colored sweater and dark wool trousers. Her hair was the exact shade of dark chestnut that Richard’s had been in his twenties, cascading in loose waves over her shoulders. She was pale, her delicate features framed by high cheekbones that were unmistakably my own.
On her lap lay an old, worn paperback book, but her fingers were resting on a faded color photograph—the very photograph of young Richard that Daniel had left on her windowsill weeks before.
At the sound of the door closing, she started, her hazel eyes widening in alarm. She gripped the photograph tightly against her chest, her breathing quickening.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice raspy, trembling with fear. "Visiting hours ended at five. If Dr. Marcus finds you here, he’ll double my sedative dosage."
I took two trembling steps forward, pulling back the hood of my winter coat.
For a long, agonizing second, neither of us spoke.
Chloe looked at my face. She looked at my eyes, the shape of my nose, the curve of my jawline. Her gaze flicked from my face down to the photograph of Richard in her hands, then back to my face. The color drained completely from her cheeks.
"You…" she whispered, her lips trembling. "You're the woman in the small frame. The one he was holding in the park."
"Chloe," I choked out, tears instantly blinding me. "My name is Mai. I am your mother."
Chloe stood up so abruptly the paperback book fell from her lap, tumbling to the floor. She backed away until her spine hit the glass of the window, her hands trembling violently.
"No… no, that's impossible," she stammered, shaking her head in denial, though tears were already welling in her large hazel eyes. "My mother was Victoria Sterling. She died five years ago. My father told me I was adopted through an agency in Boston because my birth parents died in a car accident!"
Daniel stepped into the warm glow of the lamp, unzipping his heavy canvas jacket to reveal the pastel-pink cotton dress beneath.
Chloe’s eyes locked onto the dress. Her breath caught in her throat. She pressed one hand against the center of her chest, right over the faint, vertical surgical scar that peaked out from the collar of her sweater.
"The pink dress…" Chloe whispered, her voice breaking into a fragile sob. "When I was six years old… after my second heart surgery… my grandfather Arthur told me I could send one gift to the guardian angel who paid for my operation. I picked out that pink dress at the boutique in Manhattan. I made him promise to mail it to the man who saved my life."
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Daniel reached into the dress pocket, pulled out the faded hospital wristband, and held it out to her.
"The man who saved your life was your father, Chloe," Daniel said, his voice thick with emotion. "His name was Richard Vance. He died three days ago. And he kept your dress in his closet for eighteen years, praying for the day you would come home."
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