Chapter 81

Chapter 81
Bella's POV:

The midday sun hung high over Graymist as I pulled into the parking lot of Graymist Psychiatric Sanctuary. My hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel as I stared at the building before me. It looked more like an upscale resort than a mental health facility, with its pristine white exterior, manicured gardens, and tall windows that reflected the surrounding countryside. The architecture was modern and expensive, the kind of place that promised discretion and quality care for those who could afford it.

I sat there for several minutes, my heart hammering against my ribs. After nearly thirty years, I was about to see my biological mother. The woman who had given birth to me. The woman Diana had mentioned in passing, the woman whose existence had been hidden from me my entire life.

What would I say to her? Would she even recognize me? Would she want to see me?

My hand moved unconsciously to my belly, where my child grew. I needed to do this. I needed to know where I came from before I could truly move forward with my own life.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the car and walked toward the entrance. The automatic doors slid open with a soft hiss, and I found myself in a spacious lobby that smelled faintly of lavender and antiseptic. The reception desk sat in the center, staffed by a middle-aged woman with reading glasses perched on her nose.

"Good afternoon," I said, approaching the desk. "I'm here to visit a patient. Melissa Moss."

The receptionist looked up from her computer screen, her expression polite but distant. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but I'm her daughter. I've come a long way to see her."

The woman's fingers moved across her keyboard, her eyes scanning the screen. After a moment, her expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "I'm sorry, but I'll need to speak with our director about this. Please have a seat."

Something in her tone set off alarm bells in my head, but I nodded and moved to the waiting area. The chairs were comfortable, expensive-looking leather, and the walls were decorated with abstract art that probably cost more than most people's cars. This place reeked of money.

I waited for what felt like an eternity but was probably only ten minutes. Finally, a woman in her late fifties appeared, her silver hair pulled back in an elegant bun, her pantsuit perfectly pressed. Everything about her screamed professional competence.

"Miss...?" she prompted.

"Moore. Bella Moore."

"I'm Dr. Rebecca Walsh, the director here at Graymist Sanctuary. I understand you're inquiring about Melissa Moss?"

"Yes. I'm her daughter. I'd like to see her, please."

Rebecca's expression remained carefully neutral, but I caught something flickering in her eyes. Discomfort? Concern? "Perhaps we should speak in my office."

My stomach dropped. Nothing good ever came from conversations that needed to happen behind closed doors.

I followed her down a pristine hallway, past several closed doors, until we reached a corner office with large windows overlooking the gardens. Rebecca gestured to a chair across from her desk, and I sat down, my entire body tense.

"Miss Moore," she began, folding her hands on the desk. "I'm afraid I have some difficult news. Melissa Moss passed away four months ago."

The words hit me like a physical blow. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The hope I'd been carrying, the anticipation, the nervousness—it all shattered into a thousand pieces.

"What?" I whispered. "No. That's not possible."

"I'm very sorry." Rebecca pulled a folder from her desk drawer and slid it across to me. "This is her death certificate. She suffered a massive brain hemorrhage in her sleep. It was very sudden."

My hands shook as I picked up the document. The official seal, the signatures, the date—it all looked legitimate. But something felt wrong. I couldn't explain it, but every instinct I had was screaming that this wasn't right.

"I want to see where she stayed," I said, my voice barely steady. "Her room."

Rebecca hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. Though I should warn you, we have another resident in that room now."

She led me through the facility, up two flights of stairs, down another hallway. We stopped at a door marked 307, and Rebecca knocked softly before entering.

The room was small but clean, with a single bed, a dresser, and a chair by the window. An elderly woman sat in the chair, staring out at the gardens. She barely glanced at us as we entered.

"This was Melissa's room," Rebecca said quietly. "She lived here for twenty-nine years."

I walked slowly around the space, trying to feel some connection to the woman who had been my mother. But there was nothing. No personal belongings, no photographs, no trace of the person who had occupied this space for over two decades.

"Where are her things?" I asked. "Her personal effects?"

"She didn't have much when she arrived," Rebecca said. "Everything was provided by the facility. There were no personal items to speak of."

"What about the staff who cared for her? I'd like to speak with them."

"The primary caregiver who looked after Melissa left shortly after her death. I don't have current contact information for her."

Of course she did. How convenient.

I thanked the current resident and followed Rebecca back to the lobby, my mind racing. Something was very wrong here, but I couldn't put my finger on exactly what.

After Rebecca returned to her office, I approached several other staff members, asking about Melissa Moss. They all confirmed the same story—she had died four months ago, sudden brain hemorrhage, very tragic.

I made it back to my car before the tears came. I gripped the steering wheel and sobbed, my whole body shaking with the force of my grief. I had been so close. So damn close to finally meeting her, to finally understanding where I came from. And now she was gone.

The pain in my chest was unbearable. I cried until I was dizzy, until my head pounded and my throat was raw. Only the thought of the baby growing inside me made me force myself to stop. I couldn't let this stress harm Victor's child.

I reached for the insulated container Jane had packed for me that morning. The food was still warm, and though I had no appetite, I forced myself to eat a few bites. The baby needed nutrition, even if I felt like I was choking on every swallow.

When I could finally breathe normally again, I pulled out my phone and called Skylar.

She answered on the second ring. "Bella? How did it go?"

"She's dead," I said flatly. "They said she died four months ago. Brain hemorrhage."

"Oh my God. Bella, I'm so sorry."

I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the seat. "Something's wrong, Skylar. I can't explain it, but something about this whole thing feels off."

"What do you mean?"

"The director. Rebecca Walsh. When she told me about my mother's death, there was no emotion in her face. Nothing. My mother lived in that facility for over twenty years, and this woman showed absolutely no sadness, no sympathy, nothing. Just cold professionalism."

"That is weird," Skylar agreed. "Even if she's used to death, you'd think there'd be some reaction."

"And the caregiver who looked after my mother? She conveniently quit right after my mother died. Rebecca claimed she doesn't have contact information for her."

"That's suspicious as hell."

"I know." I opened my eyes, staring at the building in front of me. "And you know what else? The moment I mentioned my mother's name at the reception desk, the receptionist's whole demeanor changed. She immediately called Dr. Walsh instead of just checking the records and telling me herself. If my mother had been dead for four months, wouldn't that information be in the system? Why did she need to get the director involved?"

Skylar was quiet for a moment. "You think they're hiding something."

"I think my mother might still be alive."

"But the death certificate—"

"Can be faked. Especially if someone powerful enough is involved. Maybe someone wants her to stay hidden."

"What are you going to do?"

I looked down at the steering wheel, then back at the building. "I'm going to find that caregiver. She's the key to this. If anyone knows what really happened to my mother, it's her."

"Do you want me to come there? I can book a ticket right now and be there as soon as possible."

"No." I wiped my eyes, straightening in my seat. "I need to do this myself. But thank you."

"Keep me updated. And Bella? Be careful. If someone went to the trouble of faking your mother's death, they won't be happy about you digging around."

"I know."

After hanging up, I checked into a nearby hotel, a modest place that catered to families visiting patients at the sanctuary. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, but my mind wouldn't stop racing.

I lay on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of my visit to the sanctuary. Rebecca's cold demeanor. The convenient disappearance of the caregiver. The complete absence of personal effects in my mother's room.

And then there was the gut feeling I couldn't shake. Diana had been so certain my mother was alive. She had specifically told me to come to Graymist. Would she have sent me here if there was no hope?

I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes again, it was evening. My phone showed several missed calls from Ethan, which I ignored, and one text from Victor asking if I was okay. I sent him a brief reply saying I was fine and would call him tomorrow.

My stomach growled, reminding me I'd barely eaten all day. I forced myself to get up and head down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. The place was quiet, with only a few other guests scattered around the dining room.

I was waiting at the front desk to be seated when I heard raised voices near the lobby. A young woman in a cleaning uniform was being berated by an older guest, a woman in expensive clothes who was complaining loudly about the state of her room.

"This is unacceptable! I'm paying good money to stay here, and I expect proper service!"

The cleaning woman kept her head down, apologizing repeatedly, but the guest wouldn't let up. I was about to intervene when something caught my eye.

The cleaning woman's hand moved to her collar, and I saw it. A necklace. A copper bee pendant on a delicate chain.

My own hand flew to my chest, where an identical necklace hung beneath my shirt. Diana had given it to me when I was twelve, fastening it around my neck with gentle hands.

"This is very special," she had told me. "I designed it myself. There are only two in the world. One for you, and the other..." She had trailed off, her eyes distant, sad. "The other went to someone very important."

At the time, I had assumed she meant Bryan. But now, staring at the identical bee pendant hanging around this stranger's neck, I knew I had been wrong.

The angry guest finally stalked off, and the cleaning woman hurried toward the service elevator. Without thinking, I followed her.

"Excuse me," I called out.

She turned, her expression wary. Up close, I could see she was probably in her late forties, with tired eyes and work-worn hands.

"Your necklace," I said, pulling my own out from beneath my shirt. "Where did you get it?"

Her eyes widened when she saw my pendant. For a moment, she just stared, her face going pale.

"It was a gift," she said quickly. "From a friend."

"What friend?"

"I don't remember. It was a long time ago."

She was lying. I could see it in the way she wouldn't meet my eyes, in the slight tremor in her hands.

"That necklace is worth about sixty thousand dollars," I said quietly. "The bee is made of copper, but the chain is eighteen-karat gold with inlaid diamonds in the wings. It's a custom piece, designed by Diana Moore of the Wildfire Pack. There are only two in existence."

The woman's face had gone from pale to gray. "I... I need to get back to work."

She tried to move past me, but I stepped in front of her.

"I know where you got that necklace," I said. "You got it from Melissa Moss. Didn't you?"

The woman's eyes filled with tears. "Please. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. You worked at Graymist Sanctuary. You were my mother's caregiver."

"I don't—"

"Tell me the truth, or I'm calling the police right now." I pulled out my phone. "That necklace is stolen property. My adoptive mother gave it to Melissa Moss thirty years ago. If you have it, you either stole it from a patient or you know exactly what happened to her."

The woman's legs seemed to give out. She sagged against the wall, her whole body shaking.

"Please don't call the police," she whispered. "Please. I'll tell you everything. Just please don't call the police."