Chapter 11 - THE THIRD EMBRYO
I had thought nothing could surprise me anymore.
I was wrong.
Our fertility clinic had recorded two embryos transferred.
One remained frozen.
Except the physical inventory showed no remaining embryo.
Someone changed the database.
The original handwritten laboratory log survived.
Three embryos had been released.
Two to me.
The third to a courier.
Authorized under a forged Hart family medical directive.
The courier company no longer existed.
The authorization traced to Victor Shaw.
I confronted him through investigators.
This time, Victor talked.
He looked small in a hospital bed.
Nothing like the man who once dominated boardrooms.
“Where is my child?”
He closed his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I never knew.”
“You authorized the embryo release.”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“Marianne.”
My hands curled.
“Why?”
“She wanted leverage.”
“A baby is not leverage.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He began crying.
I felt nothing.
“What happened?”
“Marianne believed if you never had children naturally—or if your marriage failed—she needed another route into the descendant trust.”
“So she stole one of my embryos.”
“Yes.”
“Did Richard know?”
“No.”
“Voss?”
“Yes.”
“Where was it implanted?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“She compartmentalized everything.”
“Convenient.”
“She stopped trusting me after Andrew.”
My father’s name hardened my voice.
“Did you kill him?”
Victor looked away.
“Did you kill my father?”
“I gave him something.”
The room vanished.
“What?”
“A medication.”
“Why?”
“Marianne said it would scare him.”
“Did you know it could kill him?”
“I knew there was a risk.”
“Then you killed him.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Do not insult me with intention.”
He cried harder.
I stood.
“What about my pregnancies?”
His face changed.
There.
The answer.
“You were involved.”
“The first miscarriage was natural.”
“And the second?”
He could not look at me.
“What did you do?”
“Marianne asked Voss for something that would increase bleeding.”
My nails dug into my palms.
“Did you give it to me?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Richard?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then Marianne.”
“I think so.”
I wanted to cross the room.
I wanted one irrational second.
One act that would make me feel less helpless.
Instead I turned toward the door.
Paperwork.
My father had been right.
Punish them legally.
Behind me, Victor said:
“Evelyn.”
I stopped.
“The embryo was implanted.”
I turned.
“You said you didn’t know.”
“I don’t know where.”
“But you know that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Voss billed us.”
“When?”
He gave me a date.
Seven years earlier.
My daughter—or son—would now be approximately six.
The world changed again.
“Was the pregnancy successful?”
Victor closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
I could barely speak.
“Where is my child?”
“I swear I don’t know.”
I believed him.
That was almost worse.
The search became urgent.
Payments led from Voss to a private obstetrician.
Then to a surrogate agency.
The agency records had been destroyed in a flood.
But one bank payment survived.
Monthly support.
Six years.
Paid to a woman named Rachel Ames.
The address was in Vermont.
Federal investigators reached the house that night.
Empty.
Neighbors said Rachel had lived there with a little girl.
Quiet.
Brown hair.
About six.
They had left two days earlier.
After a black SUV arrived.
The neighbor had taken a photograph because the vehicle blocked her mailbox.
May you like
The SUV belonged to a Sterling security contractor.
Marianne had gotten there first.
