Chapter 2 - PROTOCOL RED
Celestine Holloway did not scream after I told her Wren would not be leaving with her.
That would have made everything easier.
Instead, she became calm.
Terrifyingly calm.
Her hand dropped from the X-ray room handle. She smoothed the front of her ivory blouse, glanced at the parents gathering at the far end of the hallway, and looked at me as though I were an employee who had made an embarrassing mistake in front of important guests.
“Dr. Mercer,” she said softly, “you are making a decision that could destroy your career.”
Behind the glass, Wren still held the lead apron against her chest.
Her words stared back at us.
SHE IS NOT MY MOTHER.
PLEASE DON’T LET HER TAKE ME BACK.
TO THE BASEMENT.
“I’ll take that risk,” I said.
Celestine’s eyes hardened.
Footsteps approached from behind me.
Declan Reyes appeared first.
Declan had been my practice administrator for almost six years. Before that, he had spent twelve years as a paramedic in Marion County, which meant he was one of those rare people who could walk into chaos without letting chaos change the speed of his breathing.
Talia followed him.
She carried no clipboard now.
Only her phone.
Declan stopped beside me and took in the scene.
“Protocol Red?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He gave one nod.
That meant the exterior doors were being monitored, nonessential staff were moving families away from the hallway, emergency services had been contacted, and nobody claiming custody of a potentially endangered child was leaving with that child until law enforcement and child-protection officials evaluated the situation.
Celestine gave a quiet laugh.
“You people have watched too many television dramas.”
Nobody answered.
She reached into her handbag.
Declan immediately lifted one hand.
“Please tell me what you’re reaching for.”
“My documents.”
She removed a slim leather folder and opened it.
Inside were identification cards, medical authorization documents, an insurance form, and what appeared to be a temporary guardianship order carrying an Illinois court seal.
She held the papers toward me.
“Wren has behavioral issues associated with trauma,” Celestine said. “She invents stories when she is frightened or angry. Her former therapist documented it. This is precisely why strangers should not interfere with complicated families they know nothing about.”
I looked through the glass.
Wren was staring at Celestine.
Not angrily.
Not defiantly.
She looked like prey measuring the distance to the nearest hiding place.
“I know enough,” I said.
“You are a dentist.”
“I’m also a mandated reporter.”
Celestine’s smile disappeared.
“You examined one tooth.”
“And her arm.”
Something flickered across her face.
Small.
Fast.
But I saw it.
Fear.
Not fear of being misunderstood.
Fear of being discovered.
Sirens sounded outside.
For the first time, Wren lowered the apron.
Her knees nearly buckled.
I turned toward the glass.
“Wren?”
She looked at me.
“The police are here,” I said. “You are not in trouble.”
Her mouth moved.
I couldn’t hear her through the door.
“What did she say?” Talia whispered.
Wren repeated it.
I read her lips.
Don’t let them believe her.
That sentence struck harder than anything Celestine had said.
Two uniformed Indianapolis officers entered with a woman wearing a county child-protection badge.
Officer Daniel Brooks introduced himself while his partner, Officer Mariah Cole, remained near Celestine.
The child-protection investigator was Naomi Price, a compact woman in her late thirties whose expression changed the instant she saw the writing on the lead apron.
I explained everything.
The bruises.
The flinching.
The fever.
The infected molar.
The statements.
Celestine interrupted twice.
Naomi stopped her the second time.
“You’ll have your opportunity, Ms. Holloway.”
“I am her mother.”
“Then verification should be simple.”
“It is simple.”
Celestine handed her the folder.
Officer Brooks examined the guardianship order.
His eyebrows tightened.
“This has a Cook County seal.”
“Because we lived in Chicago.”
“And the child’s surname?”
“Holloway.”
Behind the glass, Wren suddenly shook her head.
Once.
Then harder.
Naomi noticed.
She stepped toward the door but did not touch the handle.
“Wren, my name is Naomi. I work with children. I’m not going to open the door unless you want me to.”
Wren stared at her.
Naomi crouched so they were almost eye level through the window.
“Is there anyone in this hallway you trust enough to let inside?”
Wren’s gaze moved.
Past Naomi.
Past Talia.
Straight to me.
Celestine exhaled through her nose.
“Of course.”
I ignored her.
“Can I come in?” I asked Wren.
A tiny nod.
I waited while she dragged the stool away.
Then she unlocked the door just wide enough for me to slip through before immediately shutting it again.
The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and warm electronics.
Up close, Wren looked worse.
Sweat dampened her hairline. Her swollen cheek had reddened, and her breathing was quicker than it had been fifteen minutes earlier.
I crouched.
“We need to take care of your infection.”
Her eyes filled.
“Will she come?”
“No.”
“You promise?”
There are promises doctors should be careful about making.
That one I made anyway.
“I promise I will do everything I legally can to keep you safe.”
She swallowed.
Then whispered, “My name isn’t Holloway.”
Every sound outside the room seemed to disappear.
“What is your name?”
“Wren Morgan.”
I stared at her.
“Can you say that again?”
“Wren Elise Morgan.”
On the other side of the glass, Celestine could not hear us.
But she could see my face.
And she knew.
Her calm finally cracked.
She moved toward the door.
Officer Cole blocked her.
“This is ridiculous.”
I stayed focused on Wren.
“Who is your mother?”
Her lower lip trembled.
“Elise.”
“Elise Morgan?”
She nodded.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long have you been with Celestine?”
Wren stared down at the marker in her hand.
“I stopped counting after sixty sleeps.”
My stomach turned.
“Did she take you from your mother?”
Another nod.
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
Outside, Officer Brooks was already speaking urgently into his radio after Naomi relayed the new name through the partially opened door.
Wren touched her swollen cheek.
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
“I tried not to tell her.”
“Why?”
“Because she said if I got sick enough for a doctor, I would talk.”
A cold sensation moved through my chest.
“And she was right,” Wren whispered.
Her legs suddenly folded beneath her.
I caught her before she struck the floor.
“Talia!”
The door opened.
Everything moved fast after that.
Wren’s temperature was 103.1.
Her heart rate had climbed.
The infection had spread beyond a simple toothache and needed hospital-level evaluation.
Paramedics arrived, placed her on a stretcher, and began monitoring her.
Celestine tried to follow.
Officer Cole stopped her.
“I ride with my daughter.”
“No,” Naomi said.
“I have medical authority.”
“That authority is being verified.”
Celestine looked toward Wren.
The child recoiled beneath the blanket.
Then Celestine looked at me.
“You have no idea what you’ve just done.”
It was not anger anymore.
It was a warning.
I stepped closer.
“No,” I said. “I think I’m beginning to.”
Officer Brooks’s radio crackled.
He listened.
His expression changed.
“What?” Naomi asked.
He looked directly at Wren.
“We have a Chicago missing-person entry.”
Celestine went completely still.
Officer Brooks continued.
“Wren Elise Morgan. Eight years old. Reported missing eighty-seven days ago.”
Talia covered her mouth.
My heartbeat hammered in my ears.
“Mother?” Naomi asked.
“Alive. Elise Morgan. Has been searching since the day she disappeared.”
Wren made a sound from the stretcher.
Not a word.
A broken little breath.
“My mom?”
Naomi moved beside her.
“Yes.”
Wren began crying.
Silently at first.
Then uncontrollably.
Celestine turned toward the lobby doors.
Officer Cole stepped into her path.
“Ms. Holloway, you need to remain here.”
“My attorney will explain everything.”
“Then your attorney can meet us downtown.”
Celestine’s eyes found mine one last time.
There was no fear in them now.
Only calculation.
As the paramedics wheeled Wren toward the ambulance, her small hand reached from beneath the blanket.
I took it.
She held on until we reached the side entrance.
Then, just before they loaded her inside, she pulled me closer.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
Her eyes darted toward the clinic.
Toward Celestine.
Then back to me.
“The basement.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Wren’s fingers tightened around mine.
“You don’t.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I wasn’t the only kid down there.”
The air seemed to leave my lungs.
“There was another girl.”
I stared at her.
“What girl?”
Wren’s eyes filled with fresh terror.
“Her name is Ivy.”
The ambulance doors began closing.
May you like
And then Wren said the sentence that turned one rescued child into a race against time.
“She was still locked down there when Celestine brought me here.”
