Page 25 of The Other Mother
BURIED FILES
T he coffee shop in Palm Desert feels like neutral territory, far enough from our house that I won't run into Adam.
But close enough that I can get home quickly if something goes wrong.
It's one of those aggressively hip places with exposed brick walls and Edison bulb fixtures, the kind of spot I would have loved back in the OC.
I'm early, so I order a large coffee and find a corner table where I can see the entrance.
My hands shake slightly as I set up my laptop, and I wonder if this is what desperation looks like, sitting alone in a coffee shop at ten in the morning, asking favors from people I haven't spoken to in months.
Lex Tamin arrives exactly on time, looking exactly the same as they did when we were in that writing group together two years ago.
Short-cropped hair, thrift store vintage t-shirt, the kind of effortless androgynous style that I always envied but could never pull off.
They moved here about a year before I did to be closer to their retired parents.
Lex spots me immediately and slides into the chair across from me with the fluid grace of someone who's comfortable in their own skin.
"I didn't expect a maternity mystery when you said 'writing research,' " they say, pulling out their own laptop, a sleek machine that probably costs more than my car payment.
I'd texted them yesterday, after spending another sleepless night in Eva's nursery with the door barricaded.
Adam had eventually gone to bed, but I'd heard him on the phone in our bedroom, his voice too low for me to make out words.
He is planning, or arranging, something. The thought had made my skin crawl.
Lex had been the tech-savvy member of our old writing group, the one who helped everyone set up websites and navigate digital publishing platforms. But more importantly, they'd freelanced in IT security before deciding to focus on their novel.
If anyone could help me access files that weren't meant to be accessed, it would be them.
"It's not just research," I admit, wrapping my hands around my coffee cup for warmth. The air conditioning in here is aggressive.
Lex raises an eyebrow. "How not just?"
I'd practiced this conversation during the drive over, but now that I'm sitting here, the words feel inadequate.
How do you explain to someone that you think your own medical records have been tampered with?
That your husband might be hiding something about your baby's birth?
That you're starting to question whether the child you're raising is actually yours?
"I think something happened at the hospital when Eva was born. Something that's been covered up."
Lex leans back in their chair, studying my face with the careful attention they used to bring to critiquing manuscripts in our group.
"What kind of something?"
I pull out the printed hospital records, the ones with all the black redaction bars, and spread them across the small table. "These are my own medical records. Look at how much is blacked out."
Lex flips through the pages, their expression growing more serious with each turn. "This is ... extensive. Usually birth records are pretty straightforward unless there were complications."
"There's more." I show them the pacifier with Gracie etched into it, the email thread from Mae, the photo of Eva with the birthmark that no longer exists. Laid out like this, in the bright fluorescent lighting of the coffee shop, it all looks even more damning than it did in my kitchen.
"I need to see what they're hiding," I say finally. "And I think it's in the hospital's digital files."
Lex is quiet for a long moment, their fingers drumming against the table in a pattern I remember from our writing group days. It meant they were thinking, weighing options, probably calculating risks.
"You realize what you're asking me to do could get both of us in serious trouble?"
"I know. But I don't have anywhere else to turn."
The coffee shop around us buzzes with normal morning activity, business meetings, students with textbooks, retirees reading newspapers.
Normal people living normal lives, none of them sitting in corners plotting to hack into medical databases.
I wonder when my life became so far outside the boundaries of normal that this feels like my only option.
"Okay," Lex says finally. "Let's see what we can find."
They log into the hospital's patient portal using my discharge papers, entering the ID number and password I'd set up weeks ago when I first requested my records.
The basic information appears easily enough—appointment dates, billing codes, discharge summaries.
All the routine documentation of a typical birth.
But then we hit a folder marked "Administrative Legal: Restricted."
Lex whistles softly. "This is weird. Usually birth records don't go through legal review unless there's malpractice or a custody dispute."
My chest tightens. "Can you get in?"
They hesitate, their hands hovering over the keyboard. "I mean, yeah. Probably. But Claire, this could get me flagged. Like, fired from freelance contracts. Or worse, sued. Hospitals don't mess around with security breaches."
I don't answer immediately. Instead, I stare at the screen, at that folder labeled "Restricted" that holds answers I desperately need. Around us, the coffee shop continues its normal rhythm, but I feel like I'm sitting at the center of something much larger and more dangerous than I understood.
"Please," I say finally.
Lex looks at me for another long moment, then starts typing. Their fingers move across the keyboard with practiced speed, executing commands and running scripts that are completely beyond my understanding. Lines of code scroll across the screen, and I hold my breath.
Finally, a file opens.
The title at the top makes my blood run cold: Transfer Authorization: Emergency Custodial Reassignment .
Lex leans back in their chair, their face pale. "Claire ... what the hell is this?"
I scroll down through the document, trying to make sense of the legal language.
There are sections about emergency protocols, about situations requiring immediate intervention, about authorizations signed under medical duress.
At the bottom, in bold letters: Authorized by: Claire Matthews (Digital Signature) .
"I never signed this," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the coffee shop noise. "Not like this. Not consciously."
Lex clicks on the document's metadata, revealing information about when and how it was created. The details appear on screen, and my world tilts sideways.
Created by: A. Matthews
"That's not you?" Lex asks, though from their tone, they already know the answer.
I shake my head, unable to speak. Adam. Adam created this document. Adam signed my name to something called an "Emergency Custodial Reassignment" while I was sedated and helpless in a hospital bed.
Lex quietly starts gathering their things, closing their laptop with careful deliberation. The casual confidence they'd shown earlier is gone, replaced by something that looks like fear.
"Claire, this is ... a legal reassignment of custody. Emergency basis. Usually used in abuse cases. Or deaths."
"But I'm not dead. And I didn't hurt anyone." The words come out too loud, drawing glances from nearby tables. I lower my voice. "I would never hurt Eva."
Lex looks deeply uncomfortable now, their eyes darting around the coffee shop like they're checking for exits. "You didn't tell me this was about a dead baby."
The words hit me like cold water. I look down at the document again, reading through the legal terminology with new understanding. Emergency custodial reassignment. Transfer protocols. Digital signatures created while the biological mother was under sedation.
"I didn't know it was," I admit.
The silence stretches between us, filled with the weight of implications I'm only beginning to understand.
If there was a dead baby, if there was an emergency reassignment, if Adam created documents in my name while I was unconscious .
.. then everything I've been suspecting, everything I've been afraid to fully acknowledge, might be true.
I save the file to a USB drive with trembling fingers, the small device feeling heavy with the weight of secrets. Lex stands, slinging their laptop bag over their shoulder.
“Wait,” I say, fumbling for my phone. “Can you look at something else?”
I pull up the thread from Mae and tap the attachment link. The same error blinks: File moved or deleted. Lex takes my phone, copies the URL, and works a few keys.
“Owner’s still showing,” they murmur. “Mae Benton. Community moderator. Version history says the original PDF was fine… but there’s a second edit on Sept 3, 12:14 A.M.”
“The night I delivered.”
Lex nods, jaw tight. “Edit wasn’t from Mae’s account. Anonymous user with the link. Then the contents were replaced and the file was trashed.” They glance at me. “The template itself? Totally normal. The timing and the wipe are the part that isn’t. ”
“The file’s Mae’s, but that edit wasn’t her,” they add, softer. “Could’ve been anyone with access. Someone covered their tracks.”
"I need to know what else they buried," I say, more to myself than to them.
"Just ... be careful, okay? This feels big. Bigger than medical malpractice or record keeping errors. This feels like something people would go to serious lengths to keep hidden."
After they leave, I sit alone in the coffee shop for another hour, the USB drive burning a hole in my pocket. Around me, normal life continues. Orders are being taken and people are talking about weekend plans.
I open my computer one more time and look through my email receipts.
I’m not looking for anything in particular, but when I skip back in time, I suddenly see it.
It’s an email receipt from a boutique which says, “Personalized pacifier: GRACIE.” Underneath, I read the gift note: For my future granddaughter, love Mom.
So, it was my mom who had ordered this for me before she even knew I was pregnant or that I would have a baby girl.
I remember talking to her about names and wanting to name my daughter after her but call her Gracie, even if it’s a middle name.
My eyes start to water and I have to blink away the tears to make them go away.
On the drive home, I take the long way through the subdivision, past the Hendersons barrel cacti and palo verde tree that drops yellow pods like confetti. Sharon’s in her driveway coiling a hose, Buster lolling in the shade.
“Weird favor,” I say, pulling to the curb and stepping out before I can chicken out. “Do you still have your Ring footage from the week we brought Eva home? The day we pulled in?”
She blinks. “Oh—uh—why?”
“I’m trying to figure out something.” My smile feels brittle. “I thought maybe the doorbell caught us.”
Sharon’s mouth does a small, apologetic tilt. “My husband handles all that. He’s big on privacy.” She lowers her voice like the word itself might offend someone. “We don’t really share clips. And I think the plan auto-deletes after two weeks anyway.”
Two weeks. That was weeks ago. “Right,” I say. “Of course.”
She pats Buster’s head too many times, eyes skipping past mine toward her half-closed garage. Not guilt. Boundaries. I know that.
Still, her reaction lands awkwardly. Is she just being private? Or trying to conceal something? “We don’t share clips,” her voice reiterates in my mind. What did she mean by that exactly?
I walk out with the USB in my pocket, carrying it like it's loaded with explosives.