Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Roland’s final sentence seemed to change the temperature in the room.
Do not use Roland. His result could expose everything.
I stared at Dr. Mercer.
“What could his blood expose?”
Mercer didn’t answer.
Not immediately.
That frightened me more than if he had.
“Charles,” my father said quietly, “you know something.”
Mercer looked toward the window.
“I know what Diane was afraid someone might discover.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then tell me.”
“It may not mean what you think.”
“I don’t even know what I think anymore.”
Mercer closed his eyes briefly.
“Diane never wanted Roland genetically tested because she wasn’t certain Victor Tran was his biological father.”
The room went silent.
Roland was still on speaker.
For several seconds, there was nothing but static.
Then his voice came through.
“What did you just say?”
Mercer leaned toward the phone.
“Roland, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Repeat it.”
“Your mother had reason to believe Victor might not have been your biological father.”
Roland laughed once.
It was a broken sound.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Mercer didn’t argue.
“My father died believing I was his son.”
“I know.”
“And my mother has spent my entire life telling everyone I look exactly like him.”
“That doesn’t make it true.”
“Who told you this?”
Mercer looked at me.
“Eleanor.”
My mother.
I felt another piece of the past slide into place.
“How did Mom know?”
“She discovered it while investigating Diane.”
“Did she know who Roland’s biological father was?”
Mercer hesitated.
“That’s where things become complicated.”
I almost shouted.
“Everything is already complicated.”
He nodded.
“Diane became pregnant roughly a year after she started working for Arthur Vale.”
My father’s face changed.
“No.”
Mercer looked at him.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Are you saying Grandpa could have been Roland’s father?”
Mercer raised one hand.
“I’m saying Eleanor considered that possibility.”
My entire body went cold.
Roland’s voice came through the phone.
“No.”
Nobody interrupted him.
“No. Absolutely not.”
Mercer spoke gently.
“There were records showing Diane and Arthur traveled together several times.”
“Business travel.”
“Possibly.”
“Arthur Vale was old enough to be her father.”
“Biology doesn’t care.”
Roland swore under his breath.
I couldn’t move.
If Arthur Vale was Roland’s father…
Then Roland and my mother would have been half-siblings.
Which would make Roland my uncle.
And Wren—
I couldn’t finish the thought.
“No.”
Martin understood exactly where my mind had gone.
“Stop.”
I looked at him.
“We do not know that Arthur was Roland’s father.”
“But if he was—”
“We don’t speculate beyond evidence.”
I covered my mouth.
My stomach turned.
Roland sounded sick.
“Simone.”
I couldn’t answer.
“Simone, please.”
“I’m here.”
“If there is even a chance—”
“There’s a chance,” Mercer said, “but there’s another explanation.”
Roland snapped.
“Then maybe lead with that.”
Mercer accepted the anger.
“Diane had relationships with at least two other men around the same period.”
“Who?”
“One was a physician connected to the maternity organization.”
“And the other?”
Mercer looked at my father.
“Harrison’s older brother.”
My father went white.
“Thomas?”
My heart slammed.
I had almost forgotten Uncle Thomas.
Dad’s brother had died when I was ten.
He had never married.
He had lived in New York most of my childhood.
“What did Thomas have to do with Diane?”
Dad whispered.
“Nothing.”
Mercer shook his head.
“That may not be true.”
“How would you know?”
“Eleanor found hotel receipts.”
My father stared at him.
“You’re telling me my wife investigated my brother’s sex life?”
“She was trying to determine whether Diane had created another bloodline claim.”
“Why wouldn’t Eleanor tell me?”
“Because she was afraid you would confront Thomas.”
Dad looked furious.
“She was right.”
I turned toward Mercer.
“So Roland could be my cousin?”
“Possibly.”
“Or my uncle?”
“Possibly.”
“Or unrelated to my family entirely?”
“Also possible.”
My head spun.
Three possibilities.
All horrifying for different reasons.
Roland had gone completely silent.
Then Martin spoke.
“This is exactly why Diane refused to use Roland’s genetic material.”
Mercer nodded.
“If she was trying to create a clean biological descendant of Simone Caldwell, Roland’s DNA could introduce a relationship she couldn’t explain.”
I felt sick.
“She wanted my genetic line without his.”
“Yes.”
“How would that work?”
Mercer looked toward the phone.
“The alternative maternity plan suggests assisted reproduction.”
Martin’s expression hardened.
“Using Simone’s sample and donor sperm?”
“That would be the cleanest interpretation.”
I stared at him.
“They stole my blood for DNA. That doesn’t give them eggs.”
“No.”
“So the plan couldn’t work.”
“Not without additional material.”
A cold feeling moved through me.
“What additional material?”
Mercer didn’t answer.
Martin did.
“Eggs.”
I felt the floor disappear beneath me.
“No.”
Roland immediately said:
“Simone, did you ever freeze eggs?”
“No.”
“Fertility treatment?”
“No.”
“Any procedures?”
“No.”
Then I remembered something.
Years earlier.
Before Roland.
Before our wedding.
I had surgery.
An ovarian cyst.
Nothing dramatic.
Routine.
But I had been under anesthesia.
Samples had been taken.
My throat tightened.
“I had an ovarian cyst removed when I was twenty-four.”
Mercer leaned forward.
“Where?”
“Emory.”
“What year?”
I told him.
He looked at Martin.
“Request those records.”
“Why?”
“Because ovarian tissue is sometimes retained for pathology.”
My skin crawled.
“You think someone kept tissue from my surgery?”
“I think Diane had access to medical networks.”
“That surgery was years before Roland and I met.”
Mercer looked at me sadly.
“She was tracking you years before Roland met you.”
I remembered the photographs in Diane’s office.
College.
Graduation.
My life observed from a distance.
My father paced toward the window.
“This ends now.”
Martin looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I want law enforcement involved at the highest level.”
“They already are locally.”
“No. I want federal counsel.”
“Harrison—”
“Medical impersonation. stolen samples. falsified records. possible blackmail. surveillance. forged evidence.”
His voice remained quiet.
“I’m finished treating this as family misconduct.”
For once, nobody disagreed.
Then Roland spoke.
“I found something else.”
Paper rustled through the phone.
Martin closed his eyes.
“Of course you did.”
“It’s not another file.”
“What is it?”
“A key.”
My pulse quickened.
“Where?”
“Taped underneath the alternative maternity folder.”
“What kind?”
“Small. Brass.”
I immediately thought of box 214.
“Is there a number?”
“Yes.”
“What number?”
Roland answered:
“43.”
Forty-three.
The number followed us everywhere.
Forty-three minutes.
The hospital mix-up.
Now a key.
Mercer’s expression changed.
“Diane kept it.”
“You recognize the number?”
“Yes.”
“From what?”
Mercer looked at me.
“There was a storage locker connected to the maternity organization.”
“Number 43?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Atlanta.”
Martin straightened.
“Does it still exist?”
“The building does.”
My father looked at him.
“What’s inside?”
Mercer shook his head.
“I never knew.”
“Then how do you know about the locker?”
“Margaret found a reference to it.”
Leah’s mother.
“What did she think was inside?”
“Original client records.”
“Why wouldn’t Diane destroy them?”
“Because evidence can also be insurance.”
Against Arthur.
Against the organization.
Against anyone Diane had worked for.
I looked at the phone.
“Roland, do not lose that key.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t tell your mother you found it.”
Silence.
“Roland?”
“She’s here.”
Every person in Mercer’s room froze.
“What?”
“My mother just pulled into the driveway.”
Martin stood.
“Do not confront her.”
“I’m in her office.”
“Then leave the office.”
“She’ll know I was inside.”
“She may already know.”
Roland’s breathing quickened.
A car door slammed faintly through the call.
“Roland,” I said, “get out of the house.”
“I need the files.”
“No.”
“I’m not leaving them.”
Footsteps.
Roland moved quickly.
Paper rustled.
A drawer slammed.
“Roland.”
“I’m taking the box.”
Martin muttered something under his breath.
Then a door opened somewhere near Roland.
Diane’s voice came faintly through the phone.
“Roland?”
He stopped moving.
My heart hammered.
“Don’t answer,” I whispered.
Diane called again.
“Roland, are you here?”
The footsteps came closer.
Roland whispered:
“She’s coming upstairs.”
Martin pointed toward the phone.
“Window?”
I asked.
“Second floor.”
“Another exit?”
“Guest stairwell.”
“Take it.”
Roland moved.
Then Diane said:
“I know you’re in my office.”
He froze.
So did we.
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
“I saw the camera alert.”
Roland whispered:
“Camera?”
A soft laugh came through the phone.
“You really thought I wouldn’t protect those files?”
Roland stopped pretending.
“Why do you have records about Simone from before we met?”
Silence.
Diane answered:
“Because I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“Her family.”
I almost laughed.
Even now.
She turned everything backward.
Roland’s voice hardened.
“You chose me for her.”
“I gave you an opportunity.”
“You arranged our meeting.”
“You were lonely.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“You fell in love with her.”
“You studied me like an applicant.”
“I knew you better than you knew yourself.”
That sentence seemed to hurt him.
“You tracked Simone’s pregnancy.”
“I made sure your future was protected.”
“You stole her blood.”
Silence.
Then Diane said:
“You should be very careful repeating things you don’t understand.”
“Who was the fake nurse?”
No answer.
“Who took Simone’s blood?”
“You’re upset.”
“Who is my father?”
This time, Diane went completely silent.
Everyone in Mercer’s room stopped breathing.
Roland repeated it.
“Who is my biological father?”
Diane said softly:
“Victor raised you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“He loved you.”
“WHO IS MY FATHER?”
A long pause.
Then:
“Put the files down.”
Roland laughed bitterly.
“So it’s true.”
“Roland.”
“Victor wasn’t my father.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His voice cracked.
“Was it Arthur Vale?”
No answer.
My stomach turned.
“Was it Thomas Caldwell?”
Still nothing.
Diane finally said:
“Neither.”
Mercer leaned forward.
I grabbed the phone.
Roland whispered:
“Then who?”
Diane’s voice changed.
The confidence slipped for the first time.
“I made one mistake thirty-six years ago.”
“What mistake?”
“I trusted someone.”
“Who?”
“He promised he could help me get away from Arthur.”
My father stared at Mercer.
Roland said:
“Name.”
Diane didn’t.
“NAME.”
Then something crashed.
Roland grunted.
The phone hit something hard.
“Roland?”
No answer.
I stood.
“ROLAND!”
We heard movement.
A struggle.
Diane said something muffled.
Then Roland shouted:
“Give me the phone.”
More crashing.
Martin was already dialing emergency services from his phone.
Then Roland’s line went dead.
My hands shook.
“Call him.”
I did.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
“Call police near his house.”
Martin was already giving the address.
Dad called Gregory.
Then my phone buzzed.
A photograph arrived from Roland.
Sent seconds before the call disconnected.
The key.
Number 43.
And beneath it, a torn piece of paper.
Only half the sentence was visible.
…child of Dr. Samuel—
Mercer stood so fast the nurse station alarm sounded outside.
“What?”
He stared at the photograph.
“No.”
“What?”
Mercer’s face had gone completely white.
“You know Samuel?”
He sank back into his chair.
“Oh God.”
“Who is he?”
Mercer looked at my father.
Then at me.
“Samuel Voss.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Dad looked equally confused.
But Martin didn’t.
“You know him.”
Martin’s voice was almost a whisper.
“Samuel Voss founded the maternity organization.”
My chest tightened.
Mercer nodded.
“And?”
“He wasn’t just the founder.”
His hands shook.
“He was Diane’s supervisor.”
I looked at the torn sentence again.
…child of Dr. Samuel—
Roland.
My pulse thundered.
“Was Samuel Roland’s father?”
Mercer looked sick.
“I don’t know.”
“You said neither Arthur nor Thomas was.”
“I said Diane told Roland neither was.”
“Then Voss?”
Mercer covered his face for a moment.
“When Eleanor investigated Diane, she found evidence Diane and Voss had been involved.”
My stomach twisted.
“Where is he now?”
Mercer slowly lowered his hands.
“Samuel Voss died twenty years ago.”
I stared at him.
“Then why does that matter now?”
“Because before he died, he had a son.”
A chill moved through me.
“Who?”
Mercer’s eyes met mine.
“A son who inherited his files.”
Martin asked:
“What’s his name?”
Mercer hesitated.
Then said:
“Caleb Voss.”
I frowned.
I didn’t know the name.
But my father did.
His face changed instantly.
“No.”
“What?”
Dad took out his phone.
He searched something.
Then turned the screen toward me.
A company profile.
A photograph of a man in his late fifties.
Silver hair.
Dark suit.
Caleb Voss.
Underneath:
Executive Chairman, Tranwell Consulting.
Roland’s company.
The company desperate for the Meridian Tower lease.
The company Roland had worked for almost his entire career.
I stared at Dad.
“Roland works for him?”
“Yes.”
Martin looked stunned.
Diane hadn’t merely arranged Roland’s meeting with me.
She had helped place him inside a company controlled by the son of the man who may have been his biological father.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
A video.
I opened it.
Roland was sitting in Diane’s living room.
Alive.
Angry.
Behind him stood Diane.
And beside her stood another man.
Caleb Voss.
The timestamp was live.
Caleb looked directly into the camera.
“Hello, Simone.”
My entire body went cold.
Then he smiled.
“I believe you have something that belongs to my family.”
I whispered:
“What?”
His smile disappeared.
“Wren.”