For several seconds after Nina stopped speaking, the hospital room became nothing but machinery.
A ventilation fan.
The muted pulse of equipment in the corridor.
The faint electronic rhythm coming from somewhere beyond Clara’s door.
I had another son.
Or someone had created evidence designed to make me believe I did.
Those were the only possibilities I could tolerate.
Clara sat on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed against her abdomen.
“Ask Daniel whose child it is.”
I looked at the phone.
“Nina.”
“I heard her.”
“Ask him.”
“He says he doesn’t know the child’s name.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
A pause followed.
Then Nina said, “Daniel believes the child is yours.”
“Believes based on what?”
“The genetic report.”
“That report could be fabricated.”
“Yes.”
“Sample switched.”
“Yes.”
“Data manipulated.”
“Yes.”
“So we know nothing.”
“We know Julian treated the report as real.”
That was different.
I stood again.
“What exactly did Daniel see?”
“According to him, Julian received the report through Catherine. Daniel was present when Julian confronted her.”
“Confronted her about what?”
“Where she obtained the child’s sample.”
My throat tightened.
“And?”
“Catherine refused to say.”
“Then how did Julian find the child?”
“Private investigators.”
“Roarke?”
“No. Someone else.”
“Name?”
“Daniel doesn’t know.”
“Convenient.”
“He remembers payments.”
“Where?”
“Northline.”
Everything led back there.
Clara’s voice was quieter now.
“Ask when the child was born.”
I did.
Nina went silent.
Too long.
“Nina.”
“Daniel doesn’t know the exact date.”
“Approximate.”
“He says the boy was an infant when Julian located him.”
“When?”
“About two years ago.”
I looked at Clara.
Her face had changed.
“Three years ago,” she whispered.
I knew what she was thinking.
“No.”
“You don’t know.”
“You miscarried.”
“Yes.”
“You were examined.”
“Yes.”
“They confirmed it.”
She looked at me with an expression I could not read.
“I never saw…”
Her voice failed.
“Clara.”
“I never saw anything.”
My chest tightened.
“You were seven weeks.”
“I know.”
“This cannot be connected.”
“I know.”
But she did not sound convinced.
Nina spoke firmly.
“Do not build a theory from trauma and incomplete records.”
I almost laughed at hearing my own recent lesson returned to me.
Clara said, “I’m not building anything.”
“Yes, you are.”
Nina’s tone softened.
“And I understand why. But we need evidence.”
Clara closed her eyes.
“What evidence?”
“The original medical records. Lab chain of custody. Daniel’s documents. Genetic verification.”
I looked toward the door.
“And the boy.”
“Yes.”
“Where did Julian send him?”
Nina hesitated.
“Daniel says he never knew.”
“You said Julian paid the guardian to disappear.”
“That is Daniel’s account.”
“Who was the guardian?”
“A woman.”
“Name?”
“He remembers only a first name.”
“What?”
“Rachel.”
That gave us almost nothing.
“Age?”
“Daniel estimates thirties.”
“Relationship to the child?”
“Unknown.”
“Mother?”
“He doesn’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Because Julian referred to her as the guardian.”
I paced.
“What did Julian pay?”
“Three hundred thousand initially.”
“Initially?”
“Then monthly transfers.”
“How much?”
“Eight thousand.”
“For two years?”
“Approximately.”
“That’s not disappearance money.”
“No.”
“That’s support.”
Nina agreed.
“Which raises a question.”
“Whether Julian was hiding the child or protecting him.”
Clara looked at me.
Neither interpretation made sense with the Julian we knew.
Or perhaps both did.
A man could destroy my marriage and still refuse to involve a baby.
He had said exactly that to Catherine.
Leave the child out of it.
“What account received the payments?”
“Daniel says a Northline subsidiary.”
“No. The recipient.”
“We’re tracing it.”
“Where did the first payment happen?”
“Cashier’s check.”
“Bank?”
“Daniel is giving us details.”
“Keep him talking.”
“We are.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“No.”
“Nina.”
“He is injured, frightened, and finally cooperating. I’m not putting you on the phone so you can threaten him.”
“I wouldn’t threaten him.”
Clara looked at me.
I corrected myself.
“Much.”
Nina ignored that.
“There’s something else Daniel said.”
“What?”
“Julian did not want Catherine to know where the boy went.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
“Unknown.”
“So Catherine found the child first.”
“Yes.”
“Got his DNA.”
“Apparently.”
“Then told Julian.”
“Yes.”
“And Julian moved him somewhere she couldn’t find.”
“That is Daniel’s interpretation.”
“Why?”
“Daniel says Julian told him Catherine had become dangerous.”
I thought of the recording.
She asks whether the baby can be used.
Julian refuses.
Maybe he had already learned what Catherine was capable of doing with a child connected to me.
“Where is Catherine now?”
“Still unknown.”
That frightened me more than Julian sitting inside Mercer headquarters.
“Find her before she finds Leo.”
“We have security around the NICU.”
“I want more.”
“You already have hospital security, local law enforcement coordination, and two private investigators.”
“More.”
“Liam—”
“Her own son considered her dangerous enough to hide a child from her.”
Nina was quiet.
Then:
“I’ll increase coverage.”
“Thank you.”
I ended the call.
Clara stared at the floor.
I sat beside her.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Tell me not to think about it.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
“I was going to say we need to wait.”
“That’s the same thing with nicer grammar.”
I almost smiled.
She did not.
“Seven weeks,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I remember the ultrasound.”
I waited.
“There was a gestational sac. They said the pregnancy wasn’t progressing.”
“Clara.”
“I know what they told me.”
“Then why are you questioning it?”
“Because apparently half the people around me had access to my medical information.”
That was fair.
“I went back for follow-up.”
“When?”
“Two days later.”
“Same clinic?”
“Yes.”
“Did they confirm the loss?”
She nodded.
“They did bloodwork.”
“Ultrasound?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“They said hormone levels were falling.”
I knew too little about miscarriage medicine to interpret any of it.
“Could someone fake that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we ask the doctors.”
Her eyes filled.
“I spent three years accepting that child was gone.”
I took her hand.
She let me.
“If the boy exists, we find him.”
“And if he isn’t connected to me?”
“Then we still find out why Julian thought he was mine.”
“And if he is?”
I had no answer that did not sound impossible.
“Then we learn what happened.”
Clara looked at me.
“You’re afraid to say he could be yours.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because wanting it to be true feels wrong.”
Her expression softened.
“Because of Leo?”
“Because somewhere there would be a child who spent years without me, and part of me would still be relieved he exists.”
“That isn’t wrong.”
“It feels like it.”
“Feelings aren’t evidence.”
I looked at her.
“That sounds familiar.”
“I’m learning too.”
At three twelve in the morning, the secure courier arrived with copies of the blue-folder documents.
Nina kept the originals.
Dr. Bennett joined us.
The genetic report looked ordinary.
Clinical formatting.
Lab codes.
Dates.
Numbers.
Nothing visually suggested that it carried a secret capable of changing several lives.
The LM-01 sample matched my archived executive-health profile.
The unidentified male sample was labeled M-17.
Relationship probability: parent-child.
Greater than 99.9 percent.
Dr. Bennett studied the methodology.
“This is a legitimate type of analysis.”
“Does that mean the result is legitimate?”
“No.”
“What would you need?”
“Verified original samples and chain of custody.”
“Can you tell the child’s age from DNA?”
“No.”
“Identity?”
“No.”
“Anything?”
“Sex is male.”
I almost laughed from frustration.
“We already knew that.”
“Yes.”
Clara pointed toward the date.
“Look.”
The sample had been processed eleven weeks after her miscarriage.
Not two months.
Nearly three.
“What?”
She pointed to a specimen notation.
M-17: neonatal blood spot extract.
Dr. Bennett leaned closer.
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“A neonatal blood spot is commonly collected from newborns for screening.”
“So the sample came from a newborn.”
“According to the notation.”
“How old?”
“Likely days after birth when originally collected, though the extract could have been tested later.”
Clara went pale.
“If the child was a newborn three months after my miscarriage…”
“He could not have been that pregnancy,” Dr. Bennett said gently.
The certainty hurt and relieved us simultaneously.
Clara nodded.
“Okay.”
I squeezed her hand.
One nightmare closed.
Another remained.
“If the boy was already born around then, conception would have happened almost a year earlier.”
Dr. Bennett nodded.
Clara looked at me.
The question did not need words.
Had I slept with someone else?
“No.”
She searched my face.
“I didn’t.”
“We were married.”
“I know.”
“Were we separated at any point?”
“No.”
“Travel?”
“Constantly.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I never cheated on you.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
“I believe you.”
“Then how do I have a biological son born during our marriage?”
No one answered.
Dr. Bennett looked again at the report.
“There is another possibility.”
“What?”
“Stored reproductive material.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Did you ever bank sperm?”
“No.”
Then memory surfaced.
Not sperm banking.
Fertility testing.
Years ago.
Clara saw my expression.
“What?”
“We did testing.”
“When?”
“Before the first pregnancy.”
Her eyes widened.
The fertility clinic.
We had gone once together after months of discussing whether work would ever leave us enough space for children.
Bloodwork for Clara.
Semen analysis for me.
We never returned together.
The clinic had said everything appeared normal.
Then life resumed.
“Could they have retained a sample?”
Dr. Bennett said, “Possibly temporarily. Long-term retention would ordinarily require consent.”
“Ordinarily.”
“Yes.”
I thought of stolen medical data.
Benefits access.
Elise.
Julian.
Catherine.
“What clinic?”
Clara gave the name.
Nina had already been listening through the secure call.
“We’ll preserve their records immediately.”
“Now.”
“Yes.”
Forty minutes later, Nina called back.
The fertility clinic had changed ownership two years ago.
Its old records were archived.
But one preliminary fact had already surfaced.
My sample had not been destroyed when expected.
“Why?”
Nina said, “The chart says you authorized extended storage.”
“I did not.”
“Signature?”
“Electronic.”
“Credential?”
“Apparently yours.”
I laughed without humor.
Another authorization I never made.
“How long was it stored?”
“Fourteen months.”
Clara’s hand tightened around mine.
“That covers the possible conception.”
“Yes.”
“Was any material released?”
Nina paused.
“Yes.”
My heart hammered.
“To whom?”
“The record says transferred to an affiliated reproductive laboratory.”
“Why?”
“Genetic viability research.”
“I never consented to research.”
“There is a consent form.”
“Forged.”
“We’ll verify.”
“Where did the sample go after that?”
“Unknown yet.”
Clara whispered, “Someone used it.”
Dr. Bennett immediately said, “We cannot conclude that.”
But none of us could avoid thinking it.
I asked Nina, “Who requested the transfer?”
“An administrator.”
“Name.”
“Elise Carter.”
Clara recoiled.
I stared at the phone.
“No.”
“Elise’s credentials approved the transfer.”
“Credentials aren’t the same as action.”
“I know.”
“Ask her.”
“We are.”
The answer came fifteen minutes later.
Elise denied approving anything.
But she remembered Julian asking her questions about the clinic.
When?
Shortly after she learned I was her half-brother.
My skin went cold.
“What exactly did he ask?”
Nina relayed Elise’s statement.
Whether the clinic retained samples.
Whether samples could be released.
Whether parentage could be established later.
Julian had been searching for something.
Or preparing something.
Then Nina said, “Elise remembers one more thing.”
“What?”
“Catherine was undergoing fertility treatment around the same period.”
I frowned.
“She was what, sixty?”
“Not for herself.”
The answer arrived before the explanation.
“She accompanied another woman.”
“Who?”
“Elise didn’t know then.”
“And now?”
“She thinks it was Rachel.”
The guardian.
My hidden son’s guardian.
I felt the room narrow.
“Find Rachel.”
“We’re working on the clinic records.”
“Find her.”
Then another message arrived on Nina’s side.
She stopped speaking.
“What?”
“I have a surname.”
My pulse jumped.
“Rachel what?”
“Donovan.”
“Where is she?”
“Last known address is in Wisconsin.”
“Current?”
“Checking.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Child?”
Nina went silent.
“Nina.”
“Public records list one dependent.”
My throat tightened.
“Name?”
“Ethan Donovan.”
“How old?”
“Three.”
The age fit.
“Photo?”
“Not yet.”
“Father listed?”
“No.”
Clara reached for my hand.
Then Nina said, “There’s more.”
“What?”
“Rachel Donovan worked at the fertility clinic.”
I closed my eyes.
“What job?”
“Embryology technician.”
The answer transformed the possibility into something far darker.
A stored sample.
A forged consent.
A fertility-clinic employee.
Catherine Vance.
Julian searching for a child.
A genetic report.
And somewhere in Wisconsin, a three-year-old boy named Ethan.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: Rachel Finally Explained How Ethan Was Conceived, but the Person Who Ordered It Turned Julian From Architect Into Unwilling Accomplice
The Call That Reached Me Minutes Before I Signed the Biggest Deal of My Career
Part 17 of 35
