Arthur asked, turning sharply.
Cole opened the file and pulled out a yellowed sheet.
“The medical examiner wrote that the body was so badly burned that visual identification was impossible. They used dental records. But look here. There’s no mention of a pregnancy in the examination of the pelvic bones.”
Arthur snatched the paper from his hand.
“They said the fire destroyed everything.”
“Fire doesn’t erase bones, Arthur,” Cole interjected. “If the baby had died inside her, they would have found fetal remains, a skeleton, something. But the report is blank. That means one of two things: either the ME was incompetent, or someone paid him to look the other way.”
“Or she gave birth before she died,” Anna said, her eyes fixed on the forest below. “The man in the leather jacket. He got me out.”
“We need to get down there,” Arthur said, heading for the trunk to get ropes. “I want to see the exact spot.”
“Mr. Blackwood, that’s dangerous,” Cole warned. “But I have a better lead. There’s a barely legible footnote in the police report. A call from a local nurse that same night.”
“A nurse?” Arthur stopped.
“Yes, a Martha Gable. She worked at the rural clinic in the next town over. She called the sheriff to report a suspicious man trying to steal medical supplies. But the deputies were too busy with your crash and blew her off.”
“Where is this woman now?” Arthur asked, throwing the ropes back in the car.
“She’s still alive,” Cole said, checking his notes. “Lives in a nursing home about twenty miles from here.”
“Let’s go,” Arthur ordered, gently guiding Anna toward the car. “I want to talk to her before whoever sent that text knows we’re digging.”
Half an hour later, they walked into the lobby of the “Serene Meadows” nursing home. The place smelled of disinfectant and lavender. Arthur didn’t wait for the receptionist. He strode directly to the common room, with Cole and Anna following.
They found Martha Gable in a wheelchair by the window, knitting an endless scarf. She was a frail old woman with snow-white hair and gnarled hands.
“Mrs. Gable?” Cole asked, kneeling beside her.
The woman stopped knitting and looked up at him with watery but sharp eyes.
“I’m not a nurse anymore, young man. I don’t have any medicine for you.”
“We’re not here for medicine,” Arthur said, stepping forward. His presence seemed to fill the room. “We’re here to ask about the night of December 12th, twenty-three years ago. The night of the Blackwood accident.”
The old woman’s hands began to tremble, and she dropped her knitting needles.
“The millionaire’s crash…” she murmured. “The fire on the mountain.”
“You called the sheriff that night,” Cole pressed. “You said you saw a man.”
“Nobody listened to me,” Martha said with a trace of old bitterness. “They said it was just some drunk drifter, but I know what I saw.”
“What did you see, Martha?” Anna asked, moving closer. She knelt to be at the old woman’s eye level and took her hands. “Please, tell us. It’s very important.”
Martha looked at Anna, her eyes squinting as if trying to focus on a distant memory.
“You look like her,” the old woman whispered. “Like the woman in the newspaper photo.”
“Tell us about the man,” Arthur insisted impatiently.
Martha sighed and looked out the window.
“He came into the clinic through the back door, soaked to the bone. He smelled of smoke and burnt blood. He was wearing a leather jacket that was too big for him.”
“What did he want?” Cole asked.
“He didn’t want money,” Martha said. “He wanted surgical thread and milk.”
“Milk,” Arthur repeated, a knot forming in his stomach.
“Baby formula,” Martha clarified. “He was desperate, crying. His hands were burned. I gave him what he asked for and told him to go to the hospital. But he said he couldn’t, that they would take her.”
“Take who?” Anna asked.
“The baby girl,” Martha replied. “He said he had to save the baby girl, because her mother had gone to heaven.”
Arthur closed his eyes, fighting back tears.
“It was true. Eleanor gave birth. Eleanor died knowing her daughter was alive.”
“Do you know who the man was?”
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