Page 32 of A Hidden Hope

“You can’t have it both ways,” Wren said. “There’s too much at stake. Think of how this could help us! We’ve been through too much together to let it go now. You can’t afford to let yourself get distracted.”

“That’s not what I meant at all ,” Charlie said, his voice dropping slightly. “Evie and I are just friends. Pals, really. That’s all. She’s been a big help to me.” He let out a small, forced laugh. “And you know better than anyone that I need all the help I can get.”

Evie froze. Her throat closed off, her chest tightened up. Just friends? Pals?

So that’s all she was to Charlie? Just a big help.

Just a stupidly naive big help. She felt her heart freezing over, with icy tendrils creeping toward its core.

Her foolish hopes, that tiny glimmer she’d been holding on to, believing that she and Charlie were meant for each other, shattered into razor-edged shards.

Darcy had called it out. She should’ve listened to her.

Evie should never have allowed herself to be in this position of pa thetic hopefulness.

Charlie didn’t care about her the way she cared about him.

What an idiot she was, letting herself believe there might be something more between them. He’d already chosen Wren.

She blinked away the tears that pricked her eyes, refusing to let them fall. Not now. Not here. She wiped her hands across her face and made herself breathe normally.

She hurried back up the stairs, her head spinning. Wren and Charlie would figure out Dok was looking for them when they heard the car horn honk impatiently.

Evie left a Post-it note on Dok’s office that she had an errand to run in town so she’d scooter home by herself. Right now, she needed to be anywhere but here, before the tears finally broke free.

Minutes later, as she scootered down the tree-lined road, she could already feel that familiar heaviness settle in, like dark clouds gathering overhead.

She knew it well—the aching emptiness of second place.

It was how she’d been raised. Mission work was always more important to her parents than anything or anyone else, including their own daughter.

How could Evie compete with God? She couldn’t. It was impossible.

And it felt nearly as impossible to compete with Wren.

Dok sat behind her desk, wondering what this meeting was about.

The day had ended early with the last patient canceling his appointment, so Dok had offered to give Charlie and Wren and Evie a ride back to Windmill Farm.

Evie left on her own to head into town, Charlie had scootered off to Windmill Farm, and only Wren remained.

Instead of accepting a ride home from Dok, she asked for a private meeting.

“So, you’ve got my full attention.” Dok glanced at her watch. “For exactly five minutes.”

Wren took a deep breath. “When we were clearing out the basement to remodel, I found these old patient files.” She patted some folders on her lap. “And I took them to Windmill Farm.”

Dok gave her a look . “You took files from the office?”

“Yes. Old files. They were all part of Dr. Max Finegold’s practice. Nothing was current.”

“Still, I’m surprised that you would take them off-site without asking me first.”

“Well, no doubt you will recall that you said the basement was full of junk. You gave Charlie the all clear to renovate it. Everything in the basement had to go somewhere.”

“Wren, those files are confidential.” Or were, anyway. Or should’ve been. Dok grimaced. Why hadn’t she shredded them? She’d meant to.

“Actually, that’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. I’ve been going through them, and I’ve uncovered something troubling.”

Dok’s eyebrows furrowed. “Troubling? Like what?”

“During a specific period from 1975 to 1976, I found files of three Amish women who were treated with a new medication in a clinical trial by a pharmaceutical company named Pharmogen.” Wren paused and glanced at Dok. “From the look on your face, I see that you’re familiar with Pharmogen.”

“Of course. Their rep comes through quite regularly.”

“He does. In fact, I’ve met him a few times. Quite a chatty guy.”

“So what was this medication used to treat?”

“It was called Serofem. Used for PPD. Postpartum depression.”

“Yes, Wren. I’m familiar with PPD.” Dok tried, without much success, to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

But then her mind bounced off in another direction—how was Clara Zook doing lately?

Dok didn’t think she’d come in for a follow-up check on her mastitis.

She wrote down Clara’s name on a Post-it note before she forgot.

Wren, sensing Dok was distracted, cleared her throat quite pointedly. “I’m confident that Dr. Finegold didn’t disclose to these women that the drug was not yet approved by the FDA. And that tells me that, most likely, he never let them know about the risks of side effects.”

Those were two giant leaps of assumptions. But first things first. “What kind of side effects?”

“Worsening depression. And possible infertility. None of these women had children after that clinical trial. I suspect all three suffered from reproductive complications.”

So many skeptical thoughts were running through Dok’s head that she didn’t know where to begin. “And you’ve discovered all this in those files? Including that Dr. Finegold didn’t inform the women that they were taking part in a trial. Including that he didn’t warn them of side effects.”

“I’m making that assumption based on...” Wren hesitated. Then she lifted her head. “Based on the lack of any informed consent forms in their files.” She handed one file to Dok.

Dok opened it and skimmed through a few patient details, written in Dr. Finegold’s familiar cursive handwriting.

During that first year or so after Dok had bought the practice, she had referred often to his files for patient history and knew what to expect: patient’s name and date of birth, medical history, visit notes.

All handwritten, all information stored on paper.

One of Dok’s first office tasks was to transfer all patient files online.

Matt helped her with that big job during winter evenings.

And after it was done, they moved all of Finegold’s files to the basement.

Dok wanted to keep them for a year, just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

Then she would shred them. Unfortunately, out of sight meant out of mind. She forgot all about them.

She skimmed through the pages to find Finegold’s notes on prescriptions. There it was : Serofem , prescribed after patient complained of PPD. She glanced through a few more pages to see if there was any disclosure notice. None. “You’re sure the drug was in clinical trial?”

“Absolutely sure. Confirmed by the rep just the other day, in fact.”

Dok closed the file. “You do realize that Dr. Finegold has passed, don’t you?”

“I do. I mean, I didn’t until I went through the files. Then I googled him and found out he had died in Florida.”

“Right. I bought his practice when he retired. Then he moved to Florida.” And then he died.

Dok folded her hands on her desk. “So let me get this straight. You went through an enormous stack of old patient files and discovered this concern about three patients. Only these three. And all three are—were—Amish.”

“Yes.”

A text message went off on Dok’s phone. She glanced at it and saw it was from Matt, wondering why she wasn’t home yet. She’d texted him thirty minutes ago that she was on her way. “Okay. I’ll go through these files myself.”

“How long will that take?”

Dok leaned back in her chair, holding Wren’s gaze. “They’ve been sitting in the basement for years. What’s the hurry?”

Wren dropped her eyes. “I’d like to finish this conversation, that’s all.”

“Well, I do have a practice to run. I won’t have time to read through them until the weekend. So in the meantime, I’d prefer you not share this information with anyone. Not even Charlie and Evie.”

“How do I know you won’t tamper with the files?”

Dok’s head snapped up. She couldn’t believe how audacious that remark was. “May I remind you that those files belong to this practice?”

That flash of irritation in Dok’s voice seemed to give Wren permission, suddenly, to be irritated too. “And may I remind you that they’ve been sitting in your basement, neglected, since you took over this practice?”

They stared at each other for a tense moment, but Wren blinked first. She set the files on the desk and left. Dok leaned back in her chair, resting a hand on top of the stack. An uneasy feeling crept over her, so much so that she yanked her hand away.

Silly, she thought, as she got ready to go home. She was about to take the three files home with her but decided to leave them here. She took enough problems home to Matt. Why add this one? It could wait.