Chapter 6 The Organ Donor

# Chapter 6: The Organ Donor

The key card burned in my pocket like a hot coal as I moved through my morning routine under Diana's watchful eye. I had managed to conceal it in the hem of my nightgown before she arrived, transferring it to my dress pocket during a brief moment alone in my bathroom. Now I just needed to discover what door it unlocked.

"Mr. Blackwood has left for the city," Diana informed me as she brushed my hair—exactly forty-three strokes, as Vanessa had preferred. "He has a board meeting at the hospital today. He'll return this evening for your calibration session."

The hospital. Something clicked in my mind—the diary entry mentioned a Dr. Westfield. If Russell was on the hospital board, perhaps this doctor worked there too.

"Which hospital does Mr. Blackwood serve on the board of?" I asked, keeping my tone casually interested, Vanessa-like.

Diana's eyes met mine in the mirror, a flash of warning in them. "Blackwood Memorial, of course. His family founded it three generations ago."

Of course. I should have guessed. Blackwood Memorial was one of the city's most prestigious medical centers, known for its cutting-edge transplant program. A program that Russell, as a board member, would have significant influence over.

"I have a headache," I said suddenly, pressing my fingers to my temple where the calibrator usually sat. Russell had decided I could go without it for a few hours while he was away, claiming my baseline performance was now acceptable. "Would it be possible to rest this morning instead of taking my usual walk?"

Diana studied me for a moment. "I'll bring you some aspirin. Mr. Blackwood expects you to maintain Vanessa's schedule regardless of minor discomforts."

"Of course," I agreed demurely. "Perhaps just a shorter walk, then."

Diana nodded, leaving briefly to fetch the medication. As soon as she was gone, I moved to the desk in my suite and quickly searched for paper and pen. Finding both in the top drawer, I hastily scrawled "Dr. Westfield" on a slip of paper and tucked it into my pocket alongside the key card.

My plan was tenuous at best. I needed to get to a computer or phone to search for information about this doctor and any connection to Vanessa. But Russell had ensured I had access to neither—my communication with the outside world was completely severed.

Diana returned with aspirin and water. As I swallowed the pills, an idea formed.

"Diana," I said hesitantly, "I believe my headache might be related to my eyes. Vanessa suffered from occasional migraines triggered by eye strain. Perhaps I should see an ophthalmologist?"

Diana's expression remained impassive. "I'll mention it to Mr. Blackwood when he returns."

"Thank you," I replied, adding with careful precision, "Vanessa always said Dr. Wilson at Blackwood Memorial was the only one who truly understood her condition."

I had no idea if Vanessa had ever seen an ophthalmologist named Wilson, but I needed to plant the suggestion of a doctor's visit in Diana's mind.

The morning passed slowly. My abbreviated garden walk revealed nothing useful, and my attempts to casually explore the mansion's less familiar corridors were thwarted by Diana's constant presence.

After lunch, while Diana was occupied instructing the chef about dinner preparations, I seized my opportunity. Slipping away from the sunroom where I was supposed to be reading, I made my way to the east wing of the mansion—an area I had rarely visited.

The corridor was lined with doors, most of which I knew led to guest rooms and storage spaces. But at the very end was a door with an electronic card reader instead of a traditional lock. My heart raced as I approached it, the key card heavy in my pocket.

Glancing over my shoulder to ensure I was alone, I quickly swiped the card. The reader blinked green, and the door unlocked with a soft click.

Inside was a small, windowless room containing nothing but a desk, chair, and computer. A communication hub of some kind, disconnected from the rest of the mansion's ornate aesthetic. This had to be how Diana and perhaps Margaret before her had maintained contact with the outside world while working in Russell's isolated domain.

I sat at the computer, relieved to find it already powered on and requiring no password. A quick search for "Dr. Westfield Blackwood Memorial" yielded immediate results—Dr. Eleanor Westfield, Chief of Ophthalmology.

An ophthalmologist. The connection to eyes sent a chill through me.

Further searching revealed that Dr. Westfield specialized in corneal transplants and had pioneered several innovative techniques in the field. Her patient testimonials were glowing, including one from a formerly blind artist who claimed Dr. Westfield had "restored not just his sight, but his soul."

I clicked on the artist's name—Gabriel Mercer—and found myself looking at the website of a painter whose work had recently begun attracting significant attention. His latest exhibition was titled "Visions From Darkness," featuring paintings described as "haunting glimpses into traumatic memories not his own."

The gallery displaying his work was located just twenty miles from the Blackwood estate.

I quickly checked the exhibition dates—it was opening tonight. If I could somehow get to that gallery, perhaps I could speak with this artist who had received new corneas around the time of Vanessa's death.

As I was about to close the browser, a news article caught my eye: "Blackwood Memorial Celebrates Record Year for Organ Donations." The accompanying photo showed Russell cutting a ribbon at a new wing of the hospital, with Dr. Westfield standing beside him.

The article mentioned that the hospital's transplant program had seen an unprecedented increase in available organs over the past year, attributed to Russell Blackwood's innovative donor awareness campaign. But something about the timing nagged at me—the surge had begun approximately six months ago.

Around the time of Vanessa's death.

My sister had been an organ donor—I knew this because we had both signed our donor cards together on our twenty-first birthday. Had her organs been harvested after her "accidental" drowning? And had Russell, with his position on the hospital board, directed where those organs went?

The sound of footsteps in the hallway jolted me back to reality. Quickly, I cleared the browser history and slipped out of the room, making sure the door locked behind me. I had barely turned the corner when Diana appeared.

"There you are," she said sharply. "Your afternoon tea is ready in the conservatory."

"I was just exploring," I replied with Vanessa's placid smile. "This house has so many interesting corners."

Diana's eyes narrowed slightly. "Mr. Blackwood called. He's returning early from his meeting and has requested dinner at seven instead of eight. He's bringing a guest."

"A guest?" This was unexpected. In my entire time at the mansion, we had never had an overnight visitor.

"A colleague from the hospital," Diana explained as she led me back toward the main part of the house. "You'll need to change into the blue silk dress hanging in your closet."

Throughout the afternoon, the mansion buzzed with unusual activity as staff prepared for the visitor. I remained in my suite, ostensibly resting before dinner, but my mind raced with plans. I needed to find a way to attend that gallery opening, to speak with Gabriel Mercer.

At precisely 6:45, Diana helped me into the blue silk dress—an elegant creation that I recognized from photos as one of Vanessa's favorites. As I fastened my sister's diamond earrings, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside my window.

"They've arrived," Diana said. "Mr. Blackwood expects you downstairs in ten minutes."

Once she left, I quickly checked my reflection. The woman staring back was undeniably Vanessa—from the carefully styled hair to the measured expression. Even I sometimes had trouble seeing myself beneath the perfect replication.

Downstairs, I could hear Russell's voice in the foyer, accompanied by another man's. I descended the grand staircase with practiced grace, my hand gliding along the banister exactly as Vanessa's would have.

Russell looked up as I approached, his eyes calculating. "Ah, here she is. Richard, allow me to introduce my wife, Vanessa."

The man beside him turned, and I nearly missed a step. He was in his late thirties, with dark hair and kind eyes behind stylish glasses. But what struck me was his profession, evident from the conversation.

"Your wife is even more beautiful than you described," the man said, extending his hand. "Richard Keller, ophthalmologist. I've recently joined Dr. Westfield's team at Blackwood Memorial."

An ophthalmologist. From Dr. Westfield's team. The coincidence seemed too perfect to be accidental.

"Lovely to meet you," I replied, using Vanessa's warm but reserved tone for meeting new people. "Welcome to our home."

Throughout dinner, I maintained my performance while carefully observing Dr. Keller. He spoke enthusiastically about the hospital's transplant program, praising Russell's leadership on the board.

"The corneal transplant success rate has been particularly impressive," Dr. Keller noted as dessert was served. "Dr. Westfield's techniques, combined with the exceptional quality of donor tissue we've received recently, has led to outcomes we wouldn't have thought possible even a year ago."

Russell nodded, a hint of pride in his expression. "Quality is everything in transplantation. Matching is critical, but so is the condition of the donor tissue."

"Absolutely," Dr. Keller agreed. "Take Gabriel Mercer, for instance—that case study is already being written up for medical journals. A painter who lost his sight in an accident, now not only seeing again but creating work that critics are calling visionary."

My pulse quickened. "I believe I read something about him," I said carefully. "Doesn't he have an exhibition opening soon?"

"Tonight, actually," Dr. Keller replied. "I've been invited to attend as a representative of the hospital. His recovery has been our biggest success story this year."

Russell's expression shifted subtly. "Perhaps we should attend as well," he said, surprising both Dr. Keller and me. "The hospital could benefit from the positive publicity of board members supporting a successful transplant recipient."

"That would be wonderful," Dr. Keller enthused. "Mr. Mercer would be honored to meet you both."

"Then it's settled," Russell declared, turning to me. "Vanessa, have Diana help you change into something appropriate for an art gallery. We'll leave in thirty minutes."

I nodded, hiding my shock behind Vanessa's composed smile. Russell was unknowingly delivering me directly to the person I most needed to meet.

Diana seemed equally surprised by the sudden change in plans but efficiently helped me change into a more suitable outfit—a black cocktail dress with simple pearl accessories. As she fastened the clasp of Vanessa's pearl necklace, she leaned close to my ear.

"Be careful tonight," she whispered. "He rarely takes her—you—out in public."

Before I could respond, she stepped back, her face once again a mask of professional detachment.

The gallery was located in an upscale area of the city, housed in a renovated industrial space with exposed brick walls and soaring ceilings. As Russell guided me inside, his hand possessively at the small of my back, I scanned the crowded room for Gabriel Mercer.

Dr. Keller led us through the throng, stopping to introduce Russell to various hospital donors and art patrons. I maintained my role as the perfect wife, smiling at appropriate moments and making polite conversation, all while searching for the artist.

Finally, Dr. Keller gestured toward a tall man with graying hair standing before a large, disturbing painting of a swimming pool illuminated by moonlight. A dark figure loomed at the water's edge, watching a pale form beneath the surface.

"Mr. Mercer," Dr. Keller called, "I'd like to introduce you to Russell Blackwood, one of our hospital board members, and his wife Vanessa."

Gabriel Mercer turned, his eyes—Vanessa's eyes, I realized with a jolt—focusing on us. For a moment, he seemed confused, his gaze lingering on my face with growing intensity.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he said slowly, extending his hand. "Your husband's contributions to the hospital are well known to me. Without the transplant program he supports, I would still be in darkness."

I took his hand, and the moment our skin touched, he gasped, his fingers tightening around mine. His eyes—my sister's eyes—widened in what looked like recognition or fear.

"Your eyes..." he whispered, staring at me with growing horror. "They're just like my nightmares."

Russell stepped forward, smoothly extracting my hand from the artist's grip. "Mr. Mercer, you're making my wife uncomfortable."

But Mercer couldn't seem to look away from me. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "Since the transplant, I've experienced... unusual phenomena. Dreams that don't feel like my own. Visions of places I've never been."

"A common psychological response to regaining sight after prolonged blindness," Dr. Keller interjected quickly. "The brain creates narratives to process new visual information."

"No," Mercer insisted, still staring at me. "These aren't fabrications. They're memories. Someone else's memories."

Russell's hand tightened on my waist. "Perhaps we should view some of your other works, Mr. Mercer."

"Yes, of course," the artist agreed, though he seemed reluctant to break eye contact with me. "Let me show you the centerpiece of the exhibition."

He led us to a large canvas at the far end of the gallery. The painting depicted a woman floating face-down in water, her long dark hair spreading around her like seaweed. Above her, reflected in the water's surface, was a man's face, watching impassively.

I felt the blood drain from my face. It was Vanessa. And Russell.

"This is the image that comes to me most frequently," Mercer explained, his voice low. "I call it 'The Witness.' I don't know who these people are, but they haunt me."

Russell's expression remained perfectly composed, but I felt his body tense beside me. "Fascinating technique," he commented, his voice betraying nothing. "When did you begin painting this particular subject matter?"

"Almost immediately after the transplant," Mercer replied. "It was as if the moment I could see again, these images were waiting for me."

I moved closer to the painting, examining the details. In the corner, nearly hidden by shadow, was a small signature—not Mercer's name, but Vanessa's. And beside it, a date: one week after her death.

"The signature," I said before I could stop myself. "It's unusual."

Mercer nodded. "Yes, I don't know why, but I felt compelled to sign it that way. The name came to me in a dream—Vanessa. Is that significant to you?"

Russell intervened before I could respond. "My wife shares an interest in unusual artistic choices," he said smoothly. "We should continue our tour, darling. Dr. Keller has other patrons to introduce us to."

As Russell guided me away, I glanced back at Mercer, who was still watching me with those familiar eyes—my sister's eyes, now witnessing the world through a stranger's face.

"A disturbed individual," Russell murmured as we moved to another part of the gallery. "Creative types often develop unusual fixations after medical procedures."

But I had seen what I needed to see. Gabriel Mercer had received Vanessa's corneas, and through some inexplicable connection, he was painting her death—painting what her eyes had witnessed in her final moments. Russell's indifferent face watching as she drowned.

For the remainder of the evening, I played my role perfectly, but my mind was racing. I needed to speak with Mercer alone, to find out what else he might have "seen" through Vanessa's eyes. But Russell kept me close, his hand rarely leaving my waist or arm.

As we prepared to leave, I excused myself to use the restroom, hoping for a chance to slip away and find Mercer. But Russell nodded to Diana, who had accompanied us as my "lady's companion," and she promptly followed me.

"Mr. Blackwood instructed me not to leave your side," she said quietly as we entered the ladies' room.

I met her eyes in the mirror as I pretended to fix my lipstick. "Diana, I need five minutes alone with Gabriel Mercer. It's important."

She shook her head slightly. "Impossible. Mr. Blackwood is watching too closely tonight."

"Then help me get a message to him," I insisted. "Please."

Diana hesitated, then gave an almost imperceptible nod. "What's the message?"

I scribbled my phone number—Cecilia's number, which had been disconnected since I began the contract—on a gallery program with a pencil from my clutch. "Tell him to call this number if he remembers anything else about the woman in the painting. Tell him it's a matter of life and death."

Diana took the folded program and slipped it into her pocket just as another woman entered the restroom.

When we returned to Russell and Dr. Keller, preparations were being made to leave. As we walked toward the exit, I saw Diana briefly detach from our group and approach Mercer, discreetly passing him the folded program before rejoining us.

In the car driving back to the mansion, Russell was unusually quiet. Finally, as we passed through the estate gates, he spoke.

"What did you think of Mr. Mercer's paintings, Vanessa?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual.

"They were disturbing," I replied honestly. "But compelling."

"Yes," Russell agreed. "The human mind creates such fascinating narratives to explain the unexplainable." He turned to look at me, his eyes cold in the dim light of the car. "Don't you agree, Cecilia?"

I felt my blood freeze. Had he slipped and used my real name? Or was it a deliberate test?

"Vanessa," I corrected gently, forcing a look of confusion onto my face. "You called me Cecilia just now."

Russell continued to study me. "Did I? How strange." He turned back to the window. "Perhaps Mr. Mercer's talk of borrowed memories has affected me more than I realized."

The rest of the drive passed in tense silence. When we arrived at the mansion, Russell instructed Diana to help me prepare for bed.

"No calibration session tonight," he said. "You performed admirably at the gallery. Rest well."

As Diana helped me undress, I whispered, "Did you give him the message?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "He seemed... affected by it. Said he recognized your handwriting, though that's impossible."

Not impossible if he was seeing through Vanessa's eyes—if some part of her consciousness lingered in the organs she'd left behind.

That night, as I lay in bed, I replayed the evening's events in my mind. Gabriel Mercer was painting what Vanessa had witnessed—her own murder. His exhibition was creating a public record of what had happened to her, even if no one recognized it yet.

I needed to speak with him directly, to find out what else he might have seen. And I needed to discover if any of Vanessa's other organs had been donated—if there were others out there who might be experiencing similar phenomena.

As I drifted toward sleep, I realized Russell's mistake in taking me to the gallery. He had unwittingly connected me with a crucial witness—perhaps the only person who could confirm what had really happened to my sister on the night of her death.

For the first time since beginning this dangerous charade, I felt something like hope.