Chapter 2 - THE CHILDREN INSIDE MEI stared at Dr. Singh as if she had suddenly begun speaking another language.
“I’m not related to my babies?”
She immediately pulled a stool beside my bed.
“We need to verify everything before drawing conclusions.”
“But you just said—”
“I said a prenatal genetic panel in your records doesn’t match your DNA profile.”
My hands moved automatically over my belly.
The twins shifted beneath my palms.
My babies.
I had carried them for twenty-nine weeks.
I had endured injections, procedures, two failed embryo transfers, morning sickness so severe I had needed IV fluids, and months of lying awake terrified that something would go wrong.
I knew Baby A kicked whenever I drank orange juice.
I knew Baby B became active at almost exactly eleven every night.
I knew where their tiny heels pressed beneath my ribs.
And somebody was telling me I wasn’t their biological mother.
“That has to be a mistake.”
Dr. Singh nodded.
“It could be.”
Dr. Keller stood frozen near the door.
I looked at him.
“You did the transfer.”
His lips parted.
No sound came out.
“You told me they were our embryos.”
He glanced toward the police officers.
One of them stepped forward.
Detective Lena Ortiz introduced herself.
“We’re going to need everyone to remain available.”
Grant suddenly appeared beyond the hallway glass.
Even from twenty feet away, I saw the exact moment he spotted Keller.
His expression hardened.
Then he saw Detective Ortiz.
His face changed again.
That was all I needed.
“Grant knows.”
Dr. Singh looked at me.
“What?”
“He knows.”
I pushed myself higher in the bed and pain ripped through my side.
“Mrs. Mercer, please stay still.”
“My husband knows why I’m not related to these babies.”
Detective Ortiz moved closer.
“What makes you believe that?”
I remembered Vanessa’s text.
We need Claire gone before Keller talks.
“I saw a message.”
Ortiz immediately took out her notebook.
“From whom?”
“Vanessa Hale. To my husband.”
“What did it say?”
I repeated it.
Word for word.
The detective’s expression tightened.
“Who is Vanessa Hale?”
“My husband’s mistress.”
Silence.
Dr. Singh gently touched my arm.
“We need to focus on your medical condition first. You have a partial placental abruption. Right now the babies are stable, but we’re admitting you for continuous monitoring.”
“Will they survive?”
“We are going to do everything possible to keep them inside as long as we safely can.”
I nodded, trying not to fall apart.
Then I heard Grant outside.
“That’s my wife!”
Detective Ortiz stepped toward the door.
“You can’t keep me away from her!”
“She has requested that you not enter.”
“You don’t understand. She fell down a staircase. She’s confused.”
I looked at Ortiz.
“I’m not confused.”
“I know.”
Grant’s voice rose.
“Claire!”
I flinched.
The monitors beside me accelerated.
Dr. Singh immediately looked toward them.
“Everyone out except medical staff.”
Ortiz nodded.
Before leaving, she leaned close.
“Do not speak to your husband alone.”
I met her eyes.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
She paused.
“And Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Your husband told responding officers he called 911 immediately.”
My throat tightened.
“He didn’t.”
“How long did he wait?”
“Four minutes.”
Ortiz’s face became unreadable.
“How do you know?”
“I watched the timer on his phone.”
She wrote it down.
“Stay alive,” she said quietly. “We’ll handle the rest.”
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Grant sent fifty-three messages.
Please let me explain.
Vanessa attacked you. I froze.
Keller is lying.
The genetic test is wrong.
I love you.
Then:
Whatever happens, remember those babies are ours.
That message frightened me more than the rest.
At 2:17 a.m., Dr. Singh returned with another physician, a geneticist named Dr. Chen.
They had repeated my bloodwork.
There was no laboratory mix-up.
The twins were genetically related to Grant.
Not to me.
Dr. Chen explained possibilities—embryo error, donor material, incorrect labeling.
I barely heard him.
There was only one question that mattered.
“Whose eggs were used?”
Neither doctor knew.
At 3:00 a.m., Detective Ortiz returned.
She wasn’t alone.
A uniformed officer stood outside my door.
“Why is there a guard?”
“Precaution.”
“Against Grant?”
“Against anyone who shouldn’t be here.”
My stomach tightened.
Ortiz sat down.
“We interviewed your husband.”
“And?”
“He claims Vanessa pushed you during an argument. He says he was in shock and lost track of time before calling emergency services.”
“Four minutes isn’t losing track.”
“I agree.”
“What does Vanessa say?”
“She says you attacked her first.”
I laughed.
It hurt so badly I stopped.
“She says I attacked her?”
“She claims she raised her hands defensively and you fell.”
“There are cameras in the house.”
Ortiz nodded.
“We asked about those.”
“And?”
“Your husband says the staircase camera has been broken for three weeks.”
Of course.
Ortiz studied me.
“Is there any other recording system?”
I thought.
Grant managed security.
Or so I had believed.
Then I remembered something.
“The smart-home backup.”
“What?”
“When we renovated, the contractor installed a diagnostic cloud recorder because the primary system kept failing. Grant complained about it. He said it was redundant.”
Ortiz leaned forward.
“Who has access?”
“I might.”
Within minutes, one of the officers brought my laptop from the house.
Grant had apparently tried to keep it.
Police took it anyway.
My hands trembled while I entered passwords.
The main security application showed exactly what Grant claimed.
CAMERA OFFLINE.
But buried under the maintenance menu was another tab.
SYSTEM DIAGNOSTICS — VIDEO BUFFER.
I clicked.
There it was.
Grainy footage.
No audio.
11:42:13 p.m.
Me at the top of the stairs.
Vanessa approaching.
Grant three steps away.
11:42:26.
Vanessa shoved me.
11:42:28.
My body disappeared down the staircase.
11:42:37.
Grant rushed forward.
11:42:41.
He stopped.
11:43.
11:44.
11:45.
He paced.
Vanessa grabbed him.
He checked his phone repeatedly.
Then, at 11:46:31, he finally dialed.
Detective Ortiz watched the footage twice.
Nobody spoke.
Then she asked me to email it directly to the department.
When she stood, her demeanor had changed.
“This is no longer an accident investigation.”
“What is it?”
“Potential attempted homicide.”
My stomach dropped.
“But Vanessa pushed me.”
“She did.”
“What about Grant?”
Ortiz closed my laptop.
“If prosecutors determine he deliberately delayed emergency care intending to increase the likelihood of your death or the twins’ deaths, he may have his own problem.”
I looked toward the dark hospital window.
“And the fertility clinic?”
“We’re getting a warrant.”
At 4:12 a.m., Grant sent another text.
This one was different.
Claire, don’t let them open the embryo records. You don’t understand what that will destroy.
I showed Ortiz.
She read it silently.
Then she said, “That’s probably the first truthful thing he’s told you tonight.”
By sunrise, police were outside Mercer Reproductive Center.
By eight, they had seized records.
By nine fifteen, Dr. Keller had retained a criminal attorney.
At ten thirty, my contractions started.
Doctors rushed into the room.
Dr. Singh examined me and ordered medication.
“Are they coming?”
“Not if we can stop it.”
“Please.”
“We’re trying.”
As nurses moved around me, my phone buzzed again.
Not Grant.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I opened the message.
You don’t know me. My name is Rebecca Shaw. I worked in Keller’s embryology lab. I quit six months ago because of what they did to you.
My breath stopped.
A second message appeared.
The twins are not from an anonymous donor.
May you like
Then a third.
I know who their biological mother is.
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