Chapter 6 – Blood Doesn't Lie
Darkness swallowed the archive without warning.
One second, Detective Carla Monroe was examining the hospital records.
The next...
Every light on the floor went dead.
Someone screamed.
Metal shelves rattled as people instinctively backed away from one another.
Then came the sound.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Confident.
Running through the corridor outside the archive.
"Police!" Monroe shouted. "Nobody move!"
Flashlights snapped on almost simultaneously.
White beams cut through the darkness.
Officer Reynolds sprinted toward the hallway, followed by two hospital security guards.
By the time they reached the exit...
The corridor was empty.
Only one thing remained.
A black leather glove.
Still warm.
The hospital's backup generators restored power less than a minute later.
Detective Monroe slipped the glove into an evidence bag.
"No fingerprints."
She looked inside.
"The person who dropped this knew exactly what they were doing."
A forensic technician carefully unfolded the glove.
"Wait..."
Everyone leaned closer.
Sewn into the wrist lining was a tiny gold monogram.
H.H.
Monroe frowned.
"Any idea what that stands for?"
I shook my head.
But Mara didn't.
Her eyes fixed on the stitching.
Then she quietly whispered,
"Holloway Holdings."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"Years ago..."
"...your father's executive staff received custom leather gloves every Christmas."
She looked at the initials again.
"They weren't personal."
"They stood for the company."
The detective's face hardened.
"So whoever was here..."
"...has direct ties to your family's business."
Two days later, Leo remained in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.
Machines breathed alongside him.
The swelling around his lungs had improved.
But he still hadn't regained consciousness.
Dr. Aaron Patel stood outside the ICU reviewing blood reports.
"I've asked for additional testing."
"What kind?"
He hesitated.
"Not routine blood work."
"I requested genetic toxicology."
Detective Monroe looked puzzled.
"I've never heard of that."
"It's rarely necessary."
He rubbed his forehead.
"But Leo's illness no longer behaves like a natural autoimmune disease."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying..."
"...his blood is telling two completely different stories."
The laboratory responsible for the advanced testing was one of the best in the country.
Three specialists arrived that afternoon.
One of them, Dr. Hannah Whitmore, introduced herself quietly.
"We'll need samples from Leo."
"And from close biological relatives."
"My blood too?"
"Yes."
"What about my mother?"
She looked toward Monroe.
"If this investigation involves possible hereditary illness..."
"...the more family samples we have, the better."
By evening, everyone living at Holloway Manor had provided DNA and blood samples.
Everyone...
Except my mother.
Beatrice Holloway refused.
"I don't appreciate being treated like a criminal."
Monroe answered calmly.
"No one's accusing you."
"Then why should I give blood?"
"Because your grandson is fighting for his life."
She folded her arms.
"My lawyer advised me not to."
That single sentence settled heavily over the room.
Three anxious days passed.
Leo slowly opened his eyes again.
He couldn't speak for long.
His voice had become little more than a whisper.
The first thing he asked...
"Where's Miss Mara?"
I smiled despite everything.
"She's right here."
Mara gently held his hand.
"You gave everyone quite a scare."
Leo frowned weakly.
"I had another bad dream."
"What dream?"
"The man."
Every adult in the room looked at one another.
"What man?" Monroe asked softly.
Leo closed his eyes.
"The medicine man."
The room became perfectly still.
"He always comes after bedtime."
My heart stopped.
"What does he look like?"
Leo shook his head.
"I never see his face."
"Why not?"
"Because he tells me..."
"...good boys keep their eyes closed."
A chill ran through everyone present.
The laboratory results arrived the following morning.
Dr. Whitmore requested a private conference room.
She spread several charts across the table.
"I'll explain this as simply as possible."
She pointed to Leo's blood analysis.
"His immune system is damaged."
"We already knew that," Dr. Patel said.
"Yes."
She turned another page.
"But we now know why."
Silence filled the room.
She looked directly at me.
"Mr. Holloway..."
"Your son's illness isn't entirely natural."
My chest tightened.
"What do you mean?"
She tapped a highlighted section.
"Over many months..."
"...someone repeatedly introduced a synthetic immunosuppressant into his bloodstream."
No one spoke.
"It wasn't prescribed."
"It doesn't appear in his official treatment plan."
"But it's there."
"In dozens of blood samples."
Dr. Patel stared at the report.
"Repeated exposure..."
She nodded.
"...would gradually destroy his immune system."
"It would also make genuine treatments appear ineffective."
Detective Monroe slowly leaned back.
"So someone..."
"...made a healthy treatment fail."
"Exactly."
I couldn't process what I was hearing.
"You mean..."
"Leo wasn't born this sick?"
Dr. Whitmore answered carefully.
"He has a mild autoimmune condition."
"It was manageable."
"Children with his diagnosis usually live normal lives."
She paused.
"But someone transformed a manageable illness..."
"...into a life-threatening one."
The room fell silent.
For months...
I'd watched my son suffer.
Every fever.
Every hospital stay.
Every night he cried from pain.
Someone had manufactured that suffering.
One injection at a time.
Dr. Patel suddenly looked horrified.
"My God..."
He grabbed one of the laboratory reports.
"Look at the timeline."
Everyone gathered around.
The toxicologist had estimated when the synthetic drug first appeared in Leo's bloodstream.
Approximately...
Nine months earlier.
Dr. Patel whispered,
"That's impossible."
"Why?"
"Because nine months ago..."
"...Leo had only one group of people administering his medication."
He looked directly at Detective Monroe.
"The hospital."
"No."
Mara quietly interrupted.
"Not just the hospital."
She pointed toward another page.
"The toxicology shows irregular intervals."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"The injections weren't given every day."
"They appeared only after Leo returned home."
She traced the pattern with her finger.
"Hospital."
"Home."
"Hospital."
"Home."
Then she circled one recurring detail.
"Every spike happened after family visitation weekends."
Detective Monroe immediately compared the dates against visitor logs.
Her face slowly lost color.
"She's right."
The dangerous drug levels increased...
Only after weekends.
Weekends when hospital staff had limited access.
Weekends when family members were alone with Leo.
Officer Reynolds entered carrying another folder.
"We recovered part of the deleted visitor records."
Monroe opened them immediately.
The reconstructed logs showed everyone who had visited Leo over the previous nine months.
Friends.
Doctors.
Relatives.
One name appeared far more often than anyone else's.
Not mine.
Not Mara's.
Not Dr. Patel's.
One person had visited Leo...
Forty-three separate times.
Nearly twice as many as every other relative combined.
They often requested privacy.
Sometimes staying with Leo for over an hour.
Always insisting they simply wanted "family time."
Detective Monroe looked up.
"Who approved these unsupervised visits?"
The charge nurse answered quietly,
"They were immediate family."
"No restrictions existed."
"They had unrestricted access."
Monroe slowly placed the visitor log beside the inheritance documents copied from my father's hidden trust.
Then she drew a single line connecting them.
Motive.
Opportunity.
Access.
Everything pointed toward the same terrifying conclusion.
The person poisoning Leo...
Didn't need to break into the hospital.
Didn't need to steal medication.
Didn't need fake identification.
They walked through the front door...
Smiling.
Bringing toys.
Kissing his forehead.
Calling themselves family.
Just then, the conference room door opened.
Mrs. Alvarez rushed inside, pale and trembling.
"Mr. Holloway..."
"What is it?"
She struggled to catch her breath.
"I was cleaning your father's study."
"And?"
"I found something hidden inside one of his old journals."
She held out a yellowed envelope.
Across the front, in Charles Holloway's unmistakable handwriting, were eight chilling words:
If anything happens to Leo, test the family.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a list.
Not of names.
Not of bank accounts.
Not of property.
It was a series of DNA identification numbers.
One of them had been circled in red ink.
Dr. Whitmore looked at the number.
Then compared it to the blood samples collected three days earlier.
Her expression froze.
Slowly...
Very slowly...
She looked up at me.
"I know whose DNA this belongs to."
May you like
"And if these records are authentic..."
"...someone in your family has been lying for decades."
