Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN ROOM 318“Don't call me Isabella,” the woman whispered. “That girl died a long time ago.”
Thirty-six miles away from the outskirts of Milwaukee, in a neglected medical building surrounded by dark woods, a nurse named Rachel Donovan stood outside room 318.
She had worked at St. Catherine's for eleven months.
Officially, the facility was a private rehabilitation center.
Unofficially, Rachel had learned that certain patients never received visitors, never appeared on public records, and never left without written authorization from the director.
Something about the place had disturbed her from the beginning.
The cameras.
The locked corridors.
The unexplained sedatives.
The way patients sometimes disappeared overnight.
But Rachel had debts.
Her husband had died two years earlier, leaving her with a mortgage, medical bills, and a six-year-old son.
She had taken the job because the salary was nearly double what she could earn elsewhere.
Now she stood outside room 318 holding a transfer order that made her hands shake.
PATIENT: ISABELLE MARSH.
DESTINATION: UNDISCLOSED.
TRANSFER STATUS: IMMEDIATE.
There was no receiving physician.
No hospital address.
No explanation.
Rachel knew what that meant.
The woman inside was being taken somewhere nobody would be able to find her.
She opened the door.
Isabella sat beside the window in a gray cardigan, looking out into the darkness.
At thirty-eight, she had the same sharp dark eyes as her twin brother.
But years of isolation had left their marks.
Her shoulders were narrow.
Her face was pale.
A streak of premature silver cut through her dark hair.
On her lap lay a worn sketchbook.
She was drawing two children beneath an enormous oak tree.
A boy.
And a girl.
Rachel approached quietly.
“Isabelle?”
The woman didn't turn.
“They're coming again.”
Rachel stopped.
“Who?”
“The men who don't wear name tags.”
Rachel looked toward the hallway.
“How do you know?”
Isabella pointed at the window.
“Three cars. No headlights. They always come before someone disappears.”
Rachel swallowed.
“There's a transfer order.”
Isabella slowly closed her sketchbook.
“Am I dying?”
The question was so calm that Rachel felt something break inside her.
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Rachel hadn't realized tears were running down her face.
She wiped them quickly.
“I'm trying to help you.”
Isabella studied her.
For years, people had claimed they were trying to help.
Doctors.
Orderlies.
Visitors who never gave their names.
Every promise had eventually become another locked door.
“Why?”
Rachel pulled a chair closer.
“Because I have a little boy.”
Isabella looked confused.
“What does that have to do with me?”
Rachel's voice softened.
“Because if someone took him away from me, I'd want somebody to care.”
For a long moment, Isabella said nothing.
Then she opened her sketchbook.
She turned to a drawing of a teenage boy standing beside a bicycle.
“His name was Luca.”
Rachel stared at the picture.
“Your brother?”
Isabella nodded.
“They told me he died in a car accident.”
“When?”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
Rachel felt cold.
Isabella touched the page.
“Sometimes I still remember how he laughed.”
Her voice trembled.
“He used to put rocks in his pockets because he thought they were treasure.”
A small smile appeared.
“He'd give me the prettiest ones.”
Rachel sat beside her.
“What if they lied?”
Isabella stopped moving.
“What?”
“What if your brother didn't die?”
The sketchbook slipped from her hands.
She stared at Rachel.
“Don't say that.”
“Isabelle—”
“Don't.”
Her breathing became uneven.
“They told me he was dead.”
Rachel gently took her hand.
“People can lie.”
Isabella's eyes filled.
“Not about something like that.”
Rachel wanted to tell her everything.
About the suspicious transfer.
About the news she had found on an old hospital computer.
About the photograph of a Chicago businessman named Luca Moretti, whose face looked so much like Isabella's that she had nearly dropped her coffee.
But footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Rachel stood.
“Listen carefully.”
Isabella looked terrified.
“If someone asks, you haven't seen me.”
“What are you going to do?”
Rachel squeezed her hand.
“Something I should have done months ago.”
She left the room.
At the nurses' station, she found the night supervisor, Dr. Warren Pike, signing transfer documents.
He was fifty-eight, heavyset, and always impeccably dressed.
Rachel placed the chart on his desk.
“This transfer is missing medical authorization.”
He didn't look up.
“It's been approved.”
“By whom?”
“Administration.”
“There's no receiving facility.”
He sighed.
“Rachel, you've been here long enough to understand how we operate.”
“That's exactly why I'm asking.”
Pike raised his eyes.
“Be careful.”
Rachel felt her stomach tighten.
“She's a human being.”
“And you're an employee.”
He closed the file.
“Remember which one of those statements concerns your paycheck.”
Rachel stared at him.
Then turned away.
She walked into the supply room, locked the door, and took out her phone.
She had spent the previous hour searching for information about the Moretti family.
She had found a photograph of Luca standing outside a charity event in Chicago.
The resemblance was undeniable.
She found the number for the law office listed as representing his legitimate businesses.
Then she called.
A woman answered.
“Whitman Legal Group.”
Rachel whispered:
“I need to speak to Luca Moretti's attorney.”
“May I ask who's calling?”
“Someone who knows where his sister is.”
There was a pause.
“Please hold.”
Rachel heard voices.
Then a man came on the line.
“This is David Whitman.”
She gripped the phone.
“My name is Rachel Donovan. I'm a nurse at St. Catherine's.”
The silence on the other end changed.
“Is Isabella Moretti alive?”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Is she safe?”
Rachel looked toward the locked door.
“No.”
She heard the attorney speaking urgently to someone beside him.
Then he returned.
“Rachel, listen carefully. Can you get her out?”
“I don't know.”
“Is there somewhere secure you can take her?”
Rachel thought about the service entrance.
The old laundry hallway.
The emergency exit beside the loading dock.
Maybe.
“I can try.”
“Help is being arranged.”
Rachel shook her head.
“You don't understand. They're taking her tonight.”
“When?”
She glanced at the clock.
“Within thirty minutes.”
The attorney's voice sharpened.
“Can you send proof that she's there?”
Rachel hesitated.
Then photographed the transfer order and the patient identification page.
She sent both files.
A second later, someone knocked on the supply-room door.
“Rachel?”
Dr. Pike.
She froze.
“Open the door.”
Rachel slid her phone into her pocket.
“One second.”
The doorknob rattled.
“Rachel. Now.”
She took a breath and opened it.
Pike stood with two security guards.
His expression was flat.
“Give me your phone.”
Rachel's heart slammed against her ribs.
“Why?”
He extended his hand.
“Because you just made a very expensive mistake.”
Behind him, one of the guards unfastened the holster of his sidearm.
Rachel stepped backward.
Pike smiled without warmth.
“You've been talking to the Morettis, haven't you?”
Before she could answer, an alarm began ringing somewhere deep inside the building.
A woman's voice screamed from the east corridor.
Then the overhead announcement crackled.
“Security emergency. Room 318.”
Rachel turned toward the hallway.
And heard Isabella shouting a name she hadn't spoken aloud in twenty-two years.
May you like
“LUCA!”
END OF CHAPTER 3
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