"Were there any complications with your birth?" Dr. Warren asked. "Premature delivery? Respiratory issues? Your mother never mentioned anything like that during your childhood?"

  Clarissa stared at the anatomical poster on the opposite wall, focusing on the clinical illustration of a fetus at sixteen weeks—approximately the size of her own child now. "She's always said it was a normal delivery. Nothing remarkable. Except for it being very long, like thirty-six hours."

  "Ouch, that was long. And what about her pregnancy with you? Any gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, or hypertension?"

  "I don't think so." Clarissa hated the uncertainty in her voice. "She's never mentioned anything like that."

  Dr. Warren's expression remained neutral and professional, but Clarissa didn't miss the slight furrow that appeared between her brows. "What about inherited conditions in either family line? Heart defects, clotting disorders, chromosomal abnormalities?"

  Each question landed like a small stone, building into a pile of evidence pointing to how little Clarissa actually knew about herself—about the genetic heritage she was passing to her child. She smoothed the edge of her sweater where it peeked out from beneath the paper gown, buying time as she searched for answers that didn't exist in her memory.

  "Nothing that I know of," she finally admitted. "But that doesn't mean there isn't something. It's just… we don't talk about those things. My mother tends to change the subject when I ask specific questions about the past."

  Dr. Warren set the clipboard aside and leaned forward slightly, her professional demeanor softening. "Clarissa, I understand family dynamics can be complicated. But from a medical perspective, this information isn't just bureaucratic paperwork—it helps us anticipate and potentially prevent complications for both you and your baby."

  "I know," Clarissa said, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. "I've been trying to get more information from my mother, but it's difficult. She's… protective. Always has been."

  "Sometimes parents think they're protecting their children by keeping certain medical histories private. They don't want them to worry." Dr. Warren's tone was measured, her words carefully chosen. "But in your situation, as an expectant mother yourself, this information becomes essential."

  The doctor picked up the clipboard again, flipping to a new page. "If your mother continues having trouble locating your birth certificate, there are other ways to obtain a copy. The county records office can provide one with proper identification. It might be faster than waiting for her to find it among old boxes."

  Clarissa nodded, relief mixing with apprehension at the thought of seeking her birth certificate through official channels rather than through her mother. "I'll do that if she can't find it by next week."

  "Good." Dr. Warren smiled, smoothly transitioning back to the clinical portion of the appointment. "Now, let's check your blood pressure, and then we'll do the ultrasound. Excited to see your little one?"

  "Very," Clarissa replied, extending her arm for the blood pressure cuff.

  As Dr. Warren wrapped the cuff around her upper arm and began to pump, Clarissa stared at the blank spaces on the forms across the room. The gaps in those documents mirrored the gaps in her understanding of herself—her origins, her genetic inheritance, her true identity. The absence of a birth certificate had never mattered much before; now it represented a piece of a puzzle she was increasingly determined to solve, not just for herself but for the child growing within her.

  Dr. Warren removed the cuff, noting the reading on Clarissa's chart. "A bit elevated, but nothing concerning. Probably just nerves about the ultrasound." She patted Clarissa's hand reassuringly. "Try to relax. Everything we can measure looks healthy so far."

  But as the doctor prepared the ultrasound machine, Clarissa couldn't shake the feeling that the most important measurements—the ones that would tell her who she truly was—remained frustratingly out of reach.

  Chapter 16

  I slid my tray along the metal rails of the cafeteria line, the familiar sound of plastic scraping against steel blending with the dull roar of inmate conversations. Ahead of me, Susan Holt collected her lunch with the efficient movements of someone who'd performed this routine for years. I counted eight people between us—enough distance to make my approach seem coincidental rather than planned. The mashed potatoes on my tray quivered as I moved, a pale, lumpy island in a sea of watery gravy. I'd learned to stomach prison food, but today my appetite was secondary to the opportunity I'd been cultivating for over a week: Susan Holt was finally ready to talk.

  The cafeteria was arranged in unspoken territories—Hispanic women claimed the tables near the windows, black inmates congregated in the center, and the white population divided itself by age and affiliation along the far wall. Susan's status earned her a corner table with partial privacy.

  I navigated the room with practiced casualness, balancing my tray in one hand while scanning for threats with peripheral awareness. When I reached Susan's table, I paused, meeting her eyes with a questioning look that asked permission rather than assuming it.

  "Sit," she said, gesturing to the seat across from her with a subtle tilt of her chin.

  I lowered myself onto the metal bench, arranging my tray with deliberate calm despite the anticipation tightening my chest.

  For several minutes, we ate in silence, the cafeteria's cacophony providing perfect cover for the conversation I hoped would follow. Susan methodically sectioned her food, creating distinct borders between each item on her tray. The habit spoke of someone who needed control in an environment that offered precious little of it.

  "My friend checked on your sister," I said finally, keeping my voice low. "Left messages at her apartment and her workplace."

  Susan's fork paused halfway to her mouth, her weathered face revealing nothing. "And?"

  "Still looking," I replied. "Her place was emptied, and she was no longer at the hospital, they said. But your girl's got a history of moving around, hasn't she?"

  It was a guess based on fragments Susan had shared previously, but her slight flinch told me I'd hit close to the mark. She set her fork down, eyes darting around to ensure no one was listening.

  "Elaine's always been restless," she said, her raspy voice dropping even lower. "Smart girl. Too smart for her own good sometimes."

  I nodded, encouraging without pushing. Susan ran her finger along the edge of her tray, a slight nervous gesture at odds with her usual stoic demeanor.

  "Five nursing jobs in three states," she continued after a moment. "Never stays more than a year or two. Always leaves suddenly—no notice, no forwarding address. Just disappears and starts over somewhere new."

  My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression neutral. This pattern matched what we knew about Elaine.

  "Trouble follow her?" I asked, taking a bite of the tasteless mashed potatoes to maintain the casual appearance of our conversation.

  Susan's mouth tightened. "Not exactly trouble. More like… she gets involved with people. Wrong people. Then has to get out fast when things go south. But look who’s talking, huh?"

  She pushed her tray away slightly, her appetite apparently gone. "This time's different, though. She always lets me know where she lands. Always. Four weeks now with nothing." Her fingers drummed once against the table—the only outward sign of her distress. "It ain't like her."

  The timeline aligned perfectly with Ellie's abduction. I felt a surge of adrenaline that I channeled into adjusting my position on the uncomfortable bench.

  "Maybe she's just busy with a new job," I offered, playing the role of someone providing reasonable alternatives. "New town, getting settled."

  Susan shook her head. "No. She wouldn't ghost me. Not with my commissary account coming due. Not after coming to visit three times last month."

  I leaned forward slightly. "Three visits in one month? That's a lot."

  "Yeah," Susan agreed, her voice tinged with something that might have been pride. "Said she had some big changes coming. Wanted my advice."

  I was about to press further when a shift in the cafeteria's atmosphere registered—a subtle change in the collective volume, a tension that rippled across the room like electricity before a storm. My eyes flicked toward the source: two women from rival factions were standing too close at the beverage station, their postures radiating hostility.

  "Your sister mention anything specific about these changes?" I asked, dividing my attention between Susan and the brewing confrontation across the room.

  Susan's weathered face creased with genuine worry. "Just that she was helping family with something important. Said she might need to disappear for a while, but she'd make sure my money kept coming." She leaned closer. "Thing is, Elaine doesn't have family besides me. At least none that she⁠—"

  A shout cut through the cafeteria noise, followed by the crash of a tray hitting the floor. The two women at the beverage station were now chest-to-chest, voices rising as others gathered around them. Guards along the wall straightened, hands moving to their batons.

  "Think we should move?" I suggested, calculating the distance to the nearest exit.

  Susan shook her head slightly, her gaze fixed on the confrontation. "Not yet. Drawing attention sometimes makes you a target."

  The argument escalated rapidly, words giving way to shoves. One woman—tall with cornrows pulled tight against her scalp—backed up a step before lunging forward. The crowd around them shifted, some moving away from the danger, others pressing closer for a better view.

  I kept my focus on Susan, unwilling to let this critical conversation slip away to a routine prison fight. "You said Elaine doesn't have family. Could she have meant friends? A boyfriend?"

  Susan opened her mouth to answer, but her eyes suddenly widened, focusing on something over my shoulder. Before I could turn to look, she launched across the table with surprising speed, her body colliding with mine and sending us both tumbling to the floor.

  The rush of air near my face was followed by a collective gasp from nearby inmates. Susan's weight pressed me against the cold linoleum as a clatter of plastic hit the ground where I'd been sitting seconds before. I twisted my head to see a makeshift weapon—a toothbrush with a sharpened handle—sliding across the floor, streaked with something dark that might have been blood.

  "Stay down," Susan hissed, shielding me with her body as chaos erupted throughout the cafeteria.

  The initial fight had been a distraction, I realized—a calculated diversion to cover an attack that had apparently targeted our table. Whether I was the intended victim or Susan, I couldn't tell, but her protective instinct had potentially saved me from serious injury.

  Guards swarmed into the cafeteria, batons raised, shouting commands that were swallowed by the roar of inmates. A siren began to wail, its piercing tone signaling a facility-wide lockdown. Susan rolled off me, pulling me to my feet with one fluid motion.

  "Against the wall," she ordered, guiding me toward the perimeter of the room where other uninvolved inmates were already lining up with their hands visible.

  I complied instantly, my FBI training recognizing the procedure even as my mind raced to process what had just happened. Susan positioned herself beside me, her back pressed against the cinder block wall, her breathing controlled despite the adrenaline that must have been coursing through her system.

  "You okay?" she asked, voice barely audible beneath the chaos.

  I nodded, noting the odd role reversal—the career criminal checking on my well-being rather than the other way around. "Thanks to you," I replied honestly.

  Around us, guards were subduing the main combatants, plastic zip-ties replacing handcuffs for speed. The inmate with the weapon had disappeared in the confusion, but blood on the floor suggested she'd connected with someone before dropping her makeshift blade.

  "REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE!" a guard bellowed through a megaphone. "HANDS VISIBLE! THE FACILITY IS NOW IN LOCKDOWN!"

  Metal doors throughout the prison slammed shut with synchronized finality, the sound echoing through the building like rolling thunder. Susan's shoulder pressed against mine as we stood side by side, both of us scanning the room with the same analytical caution.

  "After this dies down," Susan murmured, her eyes fixed forward to avoid drawing attention from the guards, "we need to finish our talk. What I was about to say about Elaine—it's important."

  The urgency in her voice sent a chill through me despite the press of bodies along the wall. Whatever Susan knew about her sister, whatever connection existed between Elaine Wilkins and my missing granddaughter, it was significant enough to risk sharing in the midst of a prison lockdown.

  "Where?" I whispered back, maintaining the blank expression of a compliant inmate.

  "Recreation room. They'll process us there after the sweep."

  Guards moved along the line, checking each inmate for injuries or contraband. The systematic clang of doors continued throughout the facility, sealing off sections as the prison transformed into an even more tightly controlled environment than usual.

  I stood motionless against the wall, hands visible, expression neutral—but inside, my mind was racing faster than my heartbeat. Susan Holt had just saved me from a potential stabbing, creating a debt between us that transcended our careful dance of information exchange. And somewhere in the conversation we'd been forced to abandon lay the key to finding Ellie.

  As the guards reached our section of the wall, Susan's final words before silence became mandatory sent another surge of adrenaline through my system.

  Chapter 17

  The recreation room felt unnaturally quiet after the cafeteria's chaos, our breathing audible in the strained silence. Guards had processed inmates in groups, checking for injuries and confiscating anything that could be used as a weapon before releasing us into this holding pattern. I sat beside Susan on a scratched wooden bench against the wall, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Across the room, a guard with bloodshot eyes monitored us with bored indifference, more interested in the dog-eared paperback in his lap than in our hushed conversation. The protective instinct Susan had shown during the fight had shifted something between us—a fragile trust had formed in the split second she'd chosen to shield me from harm.

  "You didn't have to do that," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

  Susan's weathered face remained impassive, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall. "Wasn't thinking. Just reacted."

  I recognized the deflection for what it was—discomfort with acknowledgment of anything resembling kindness. In prison, compassion was often seen as weakness, yet she'd risked herself to protect me. That meant something.

  "Still," I insisted, "not many would have done the same."

  Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. "Figured you were worth more to me breathing than bleeding out. You're the only one checking on Elaine."

  The pragmatism was reassuring—easier to process than altruism in this environment. I shifted slightly on the hard bench, angling my body toward her while maintaining a casual posture for any watching eyes.

  "Before everything went to hell, you were saying something about Elaine and family," I prompted, careful to keep my tone merely curious rather than eager. "Said she was doing something for family?"

  Susan's eyes flicked toward the guard, confirming he wasn't paying attention, before she responded.

  Susan's lips pressed into a thin line. "She has a nephew. Or rather, we have a nephew. Our brother’s son—a kid named Chris Stone. He’s like eighteen years old. None of us has spoken to our brother in years, but Elaine mentioned he was in some sort of trouble."

  My fingers gripped the edge of the bench, knuckles whitening as I processed this revelation. The name immediately rang a bell. Chris Stone was the name Christine had given to me, the name of the father of her child. If Elaine were the aunt of Ellie's father, that would create a direct line between the kidnapper and my family.

  Susan nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. "Last visit, she was different. Nervous. Said Chris needed her help with 'a baby situation.' Said it was complicated, but important." Her finger traced an invisible pattern on the bench between us. "I figured maybe the kid got some girl pregnant, needed help dealing with it. You know how kids are that age…."

  She trailed off, and I could see her trying to put the pieces together as she spoke—but not quite seeing the bigger picture. I realized she didn’t know what Elaine was up to. Elaine had acted on her own, or at least not with her sister.

  “So maybe that’s why you haven’t heard from her,” I said, trying to keep my anger in check. “She’s out there dealing with it.”

  "Yeah." Susan's expression hardened. "But Elaine wouldn't just ghost me unless something was wrong. Or someone was making her stay quiet."

  The protective note in her voice was unmistakable. Whatever Susan Holt had done in her criminal career, whatever lines she'd crossed, her concern for her sister was genuine. I could use that.

  "Any idea who might be doing that?" I asked, leaning closer under the pretense of avoiding the guard's attention.

  Susan studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Why so interested, Rachel? This isn't your problem."

  I shrugged, affecting nonchalance. "Just curious. And concerned for your sister. I would be worried if I hadn’t heard from mine in a long time."

  Before Susan could press further, the guard across the room stood, tucking his paperback into his back pocket. "Alright, ladies, lockdown's lifted. Back to your cells for count."

  Inmates began rising from benches and tables, forming the habitual lines that prison life instilled through repetition and consequence. Susan and I stood together, joining the procession toward the door where another guard waited to escort us back to our cell blocks.

  "If you hear anything about Elaine from your friend," Susan murmured as we shuffled forward in line, "you'll let me know?"