Dr. Whitcomb had heard rumors that one of the experiments had gone terribly wrong.
A child had been injured.
The family had paid to keep the matter quiet.
“I never knew the child’s identity,” he admitted. “But if this notebook is genuine, I believe that child was Gideon.”
Rosalie looked at her husband.
His face was expressionless, but his fingers were clenched so tightly around the chair that his knuckles had turned white.
For thirty years, he had been told that his condition was a mystery.
Now he was learning that someone might have known the truth all along.
Dr. Whitcomb stood.
“I need to prepare my instruments. We should remove the object under controlled conditions, then treat the infection. I will not promise that your hearing can be restored, but I can promise that we will do everything reasonably possible to protect what remains.”
Gideon nodded.
For the first time in years, he had found a doctor who admitted what he did not know.
