Confessions
Monday May the 5th, Fredericksburg Virginia
The hotel room existed in perpetual twilight. Amelia had stuffed towels along the blackout curtains’ edges, but Virginia’s spring dawn still found ways to seep through—thin lines of light that felt like needles against her retinas. She fumbled for her phone in the artificial darkness, each notification chime reverberating through her skull like a struck bell.
Johns Hopkins Medical suspends all in-person research activities.
European death toll from “Academic Flu” reaches triple digits.
CDC establishes Academic Pathogen Task Force. Dr. Elise Caulfield named international coordinator.
The screen’s blue glow made her temples throb, but she couldn’t look away from Dr. Caulfield’s name. The letters seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. Yesterday she’d been an overlooked assistant professor whose department chair barely returned her calls. Now she was collaborating with the international coordinator of a pandemic task force. The progression felt surreal, like watching someone else’s life unfold in fast-forward.
Her phone vibrated against her palm, the sensation oddly amplified. Elijah: Coffee at Princess Anne? Have those documents ready. Can you stay until one?
She typed back with fingers that felt hypersensitive to the phone’s texture: Twenty-five minutes.
The walk down Princess Anne Street felt like navigating an obstacle course. Even through dark sunglasses, the overcast morning seemed too bright, each storefront window reflecting light that made her squint. She passed a coffee shop with a hastily taped sign: “Temporarily Closed - Staff Illness.” The sight of empty businesses was becoming common, evidence of how the pandemic was creeping into even small communities like silent flood water.
The café Eli had chosen occupied the ground floor of a converted 19th-century building, its weathered brick facade and tall windows speaking of Confederate money and antebellum prosperity. Amelia pushed through the heavy wooden door, grateful for the dim interior lighting. The familiar aroma of coffee beans mixed with something else—the sharp scent of disinfectant that had become ubiquitous over the past months.
The barista, a young woman with tired eyes and a mask pulled down around her chin, looked up from wiping down empty tables with methodical precision.
“We’re staying open until one today,” she said apologetically, her voice carrying the particular exhaustion of someone doing three people’s jobs. “Half my staff called in sick.”
Amelia spotted Elijah in a corner booth, positioned with his back to the wall and a clear view of both entrances—a habit she was beginning to notice. He stood as she approached, already holding two paper cups that steamed in the cool air.
“Got these just in time,” he said, offering her one of the cups. His eyes moved over her face with clinical assessment, taking in details she wished weren’t so obvious. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” Amelia accepted the coffee, wrapping her fingers around the cup’s warmth. The heat felt good against skin that seemed perpetually cold despite the mild weather. “You really know how to make a girl feel better.”
“I mean it.” His voice dropped to the intimate register of someone accustomed to having sensitive conversations in public spaces. “When did you last eat something?”
She tried to remember. Time had become fluid over the past few days, marked more by the rhythm of her symptoms than by meals or sleep. Yesterday? The day before? Food had started tasting like ash, and the thought of most meals made her stomach clench with something that wasn’t quite nausea. “I’ve been busy reading.”
“Reading what, exactly?” His eyes sharpened with interest. “What did you find in Eleanor’s papers? I hope you took precautions if you started going through the documents we found in the hidden room.”
Amelia slid into the booth across from him, feeling the worn leather against her back. Through the window beside their table, she could see the quiet morning street, people going about their normal routines while the world shifted around them in ways they couldn’t yet perceive. The normalcy felt fragile, like glass about to shatter.
She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the coffee cup. The research notes she’d found were damning—detailed clinical observations of a young woman who didn’t realize she was being systematically studied, tested, transformed. But something in Eli’s expectant expression, the way he leaned forward with barely contained eagerness, made her cautious about revealing everything at once.
“Eleanor was getting sicker through the winter of 1861,” she said carefully, watching steam rise from her coffee in delicate spirals. The warmth felt good on her face, though even that gentle heat seemed more intense than it should. “Progressive symptoms that match the current outbreak patterns.”
“Go on.” Elijah’s fingers drummed silently against the table’s scarred wooden surface. She noticed his hands seemed unusually tense.
“But by late winter, the notes suggest her condition was... stabilizing.” She chose her words with the precision of someone walking through a minefield. “As though she was adapting rather than dying. The documentation becomes more detailed, more clinical. Someone was watching her very carefully.”
Something flickered across Elijah’s expression—she couldn’t quite read what, but his attention sharpened noticeably. “You don’t have to spare my feelings,” he said quietly. “You found Dr. James Merriweather’s notes, didn’t you?”
She felt pieces clicking into place, but also a new wariness. “How did you—”
“I knew it was a possibility. They worked together during the war—Eleanor is mentioned in some of his journals from that time. Family heirlooms.” His voice carried sudden weight. “That’s why this case matters so much to me personally. He was accused of human experimentation, unethical medical practices.”
“You want to clear his name.”
His hands tightened around his coffee cup, knuckles going white. “Yes, I want to clear his name. My name,” he said fiercely. “It’s time.”
He took a steadying breath and reached for the leather portfolio that had been resting beside his coffee, his movements deliberate and careful. The portfolio opened to reveal thick, expensive contracts with multiple signatures and official seals. “I’ve prepared comprehensive research agreements while I check the archives for something—you’ve given me an idea about Eleanor Caldwell.”
Amelia picked up the top contract, scanning the detailed legal language. Intellectual property clauses, medical monitoring protocols, liability waivers that covered scenarios she wouldn’t have thought to anticipate. It was almost as if someone had been preparing for exactly this situation.
“This is incredibly detailed,” she said, a chill of unease settling in her stomach. “When did you have this prepared?”
“The foundation keeps template agreements for various research scenarios,” Elijah replied, but she noticed he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Historical disease research often involves sensitive materials and complex collaborations.”
He pulled out his phone and began navigating what looked like sophisticated databases with practiced efficiency. Watching his fingers move across the screen with such familiarity, she realized she’d never actually asked about the details of his job—what exactly did a “historical preservation society” do, and what resources did they have access to?
“Let me search for Eleanor’s post-war records while we talk,” he said, fingers moving across the screen. “This might take a few minutes.”
Amelia sipped her coffee gratefully, the warmth helping to ease the persistent headache that had been plaguing her for days. The caffeine seemed to sharpen her focus slightly, pushing back against the fog that had been clouding her thoughts. Across from her, Elijah’s fingers moved steadily across his phone screen, his expression concentrated as he navigated through whatever databases he was accessing.
The quiet sounds of the café—soft conversation from other patrons, the barista’s methodical cleaning—created a strangely peaceful backdrop while Elijah worked. Through the window, Amelia watched the few people going about their morning routines on what should have been a busy mid-morning street. The sparse foot traffic was another reminder of how the pandemic was quietly emptying even small towns like Fredericksburg.
Elijah hm-med at his phone, his eyebrows rising.
“What?” Amelia demanded.
“This is interesting.” He looked up, his expression appearing genuinely intrigued. “Property records show Eleanor Chaldwell sold her father’s house in Richmond in 1867. The deed transfer is in her own name, with her signature.”
Amelia stared at him. “Five years after she was supposedly dying? She was well enough to handle property transactions?”
“More than well enough. The sale price suggests she negotiated a good deal too.” His voice carried growing excitement. “If Eleanor was conducting business independently in 1867, then whatever was happening to her in 1862 wasn’t fatal. She not only survived but recovered enough to manage her own affairs.”
“Which means the medical documentation I found might actually show a successful treatment,” Amelia said, her pulse quickening despite her exhaustion. “And if we have tissue samples from that period, we could analyze her actual health at the cellular level.”
“Exactly. If Eleanor recovered from something that matches the current outbreak symptoms, then the protocols in those research notes could be the key to understanding survival factors rather than just documenting failures.” He gestured to the contracts spread across the table, tapping a specific section with his finger. “Which is why Dr. Caulfield expressed such immediate interest when I reached out about your findings. Complete intellectual property protections, comprehensive medical monitoring protocols, full laboratory access through the research foundation.”
“And my role would be?”
“Lead researcher on the historical analysis. Your medical background makes you uniquely qualified.” He paused, and she noticed how easily he slipped into clinical terminology. “Plus, Dr. Caulfield wants to monitor anyone who’s had extensive exposure to potentially contaminated materials.”
His clinical terminology from someone who claimed to be a historian sent another chill through her. “You think I’m infected.”
“You don’t?” His voice carried genuine concern. “Amelia, you’re a doctor—surely you recognize the symptoms.”
“Aren’t you worried about yourself?” she shot back. “You’ve been handling the same materials, spending time with me. If I’m potentially infected, what about you?”
Elijah’s expression grew carefully neutral. “I haven’t handled anything directly, and our contact has been… minimal.” he pursed his lips, lost in thought “Besides, I have always had a remarkably strong constitution—and I haven’t shown any symptoms... at least, so far.”
Something about his attitude felt off, but Amelia looked down at the contract, her growing unease warring with desperate hope. Everything about this situation felt orchestrated, but her symptoms were worsening whether she acknowledged them or not.
“I want my lawyer in Boston to review these before I sign anything,” she said finally. “Can you send digital copies?”
“Of course.” His fingers were already moving across his phone screen. “Give me the address—I’ll have them sent within the hour.”
“And I want complete documentation of every test,” she continued. “Direct consultation with Dr. Caulfield before we proceed.”
“She’s expecting your call this afternoon,” he said, as if that explained how a small-town historian had immediate access to international pandemic coordinators.
Amelia nodded, though the pieces of this puzzle were creating a picture she didn’t like. “I’m doing this because Eleanor’s case might help current patients. And because I may not have much choice about my own condition.”
“Then we both have something to prove,” Elijah said quietly. “That James was trying to save people, not harm them. And that whatever he learned can still save lives today.”
“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll have my lawyer review these this afternoon, and if everything checks out...”
“Actually, the laboratory is ready whenever you are,” Elijah said, standing and gathering the contracts. “We can start with basic blood work today, and tissue analysis of the samples we found whenever you get their call.”
She nodded, surprised by the relief she felt at making the decision. “Let’s go see what we’re really dealing with.”
Outside, they walked toward his truck parked across the street. The spring morning felt oppressive despite the cloud cover, and Amelia found herself grateful for the vehicle’s tinted windows.
“Ready?” Elijah asked, his hand on the door handle.
Amelia looked back at the quiet café, the peaceful street, the normal world she might be leaving behind. “As ready as someone can be for discovering they might be dying from some mysterious disease.”
“You’re not dying,” Elijah said with sudden intensity. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. We know there are survivors, Eleanor amongst them apparently, so you can’t give up on yourself without even trying.”
She wished she could share his certainty. But as they climbed into the truck and drove toward answers she wasn’t sure she wanted, she couldn’t shake the feeling that survival itself might have a more flexible meaning than she’d ever imagined.
to be continued…
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.