Chapter 6: The Midwife's Confession
I showed the text to no one.
I called Grace and read it to her word for word.
"Don't meet her alone," Grace said immediately.
"If she's genuine, she's terrified and she wants protection.
If she's not, she's there to manage you.
Either way, you need a witness."
"Sarah," I said.
"Sarah is a civilian employee in your mother's house.
She's already at risk.
Use someone outside the property."
I thought for a moment.
"There's a man named Holloway."
"Get him here.
I'll drive up this afternoon.
Don't respond to that text until I tell you to."
At eleven o'clock, I texted the unknown number: *Name a place.
Public.
Daytime.*
The response came in under a minute: *Diner on Route 9.
Millie's.
Noon.*
Grace arrived at eleven forty.
She was a small woman in her early fifties with close-cropped gray hair and the kind of stillness that made you feel she had already thought of everything you were about to say.
She shook my hand at the door without any expression of sympathy, which I appreciated more than I could say.
Holloway drove up from the base.
The three of us sat in my car in the driveway and Grace laid it out.
"If she's the midwife, she was present at Emily's d**th.
She may have been complicit.
She may have been coerced.
She may have witnessed something that changes the entire picture.
We go in, we listen, we do not promise her anything.
I'll do the talking."
The woman at the corner booth of Millie's Diner looked nothing like what I expected.
She was in her forties, heavyset, with red-rimmed eyes and hands that wouldn't stay still on the table.
She had a cup of coffee in front of her that she hadn't touched.
She looked at me when I sat down and said, "I didn't know it was going to happen like that.
I need you to believe that."
Grace sat across from her.
"Tell us your name."
"Linda Marsh.
I'm a licensed midwife.
Oregon state.
I've been practicing for nineteen years."
"How did you come to be at the Hargrove house yesterday?"
Linda's hands tightened around the coffee cup.
"Dr.
Voss called me three weeks ago.
He said he had a patient — a young woman whose husband was overseas — who had developed anxiety about a hospital birth.
He said she wanted a home delivery.
He said her blood pressure was borderline but manageable.
He said her obstetrician had signed off."
"Did you speak to the obstetrician directly?"
"He sent me a document.
It had a letterhead.
Dr.
Patricia Wren, St.
Jude's Medical Center." Linda's voice dropped.
"I called the number on the letterhead.
A woman answered.
Said she was Dr.
Wren's office.
Confirmed everything."
Grace didn't react.
"Go on."
"When I arrived yesterday, Emily was already in distress.
Her pressure was—" Linda stopped.
Pressed her lips together.
"It was not manageable.
It was not borderline.
She needed surgical intervention immediately.
I told them.
I told your mother directly." She looked at me.
"She said Emily had refused.
She said Emily had signed a document refusing hospital transfer.
She put a paper in front of me."
"Did you see Emily sign it?"
"No.
She was — she couldn't—" Linda stopped again.
"She was not in a condition to sign anything."
The diner was quiet around us.
Someone at the counter was laughing at something on their phone.
"I called 911," Linda said.
"I called from the bathroom.
Your mother came in while I was on the phone.
She took the phone out of my hand.
She told the dispatcher it was a false alarm, that the patient was stable, that there had been a misunderstanding." Linda's voice was shaking now.
"She gave them her name.
She gave them her address.
And they — they logged it as a cancelled call."
Grace's pen stopped moving on her notepad.
"She cancelled the 911 call," Grace said.
"Yes."
"And after that?"
Linda looked down at the untouched coffee.
"After that, it was too late.
The bl**ding—" She stopped.
"I did everything I could.
I want you to know that.
I did everything I could with what I had."
I had been sitting very still.
I stayed still now.
"Why didn't you go to the police last night?" Grace asked.
"Because Dr.
Voss called me at midnight and told me that if I said anything, he would report that I had falsified my credentials to gain access to the patient.
He said he had documentation.
He said—" her voice broke— "he said he knew where my daughter went to school."
Grace closed her notepad.
"Ms.
Marsh.
I need you to come with me right now to the county sheriff's office and give a formal statement.
Everything you just told us, on the record.
I can offer you representation."
Linda looked at me.
"Will it matter?
They have money.
They have lawyers.
People like them—"
"Ms.
Marsh." Grace's voice was quiet and absolute.
"He intercepted a 911 call.
That is a felony.
She was present and directed it.
The document she showed you is forged.
The referral Voss sent you came from a phone number that is not connected to St.
Jude's — I've already confirmed that this morning." She paused.
"They have money.
You have the truth, a recorded timeline, and a witness.
In my experience, that is the better position."
Linda Marsh picked up her coffee for the first time.
Her hands were still shaking, but she drank it.
May you like
"Okay," she said.
"Okay."
