Chapter 6 - MY MISSING CHILDRENI read Keller’s letter until the words blurred.
My original embryos were not destroyed.
That meant somewhere—frozen, transferred, discarded, sold, stolen—were embryos created from my eggs and Grant’s sperm.
Potential children.
Mine.
I hated Grant for making even that thought painful.
Rachel immediately sent the letter to Detective Ortiz.
Police confronted Keller.
For two days, he refused to talk.
Then prosecutors introduced the possibility of first-degree murder charges in Emily Rhodes’s death.
Keller changed strategy.
He wanted a deal.
The district attorney offered nothing formal but agreed to hear what he knew.
Keller’s attorney delivered a fourteen-page proffer.
I wasn’t allowed to read it.
Ortiz summarized what affected me.
Keller admitted Grant approached him nearly two years earlier.
Grant knew Vanessa could produce eggs but could not safely carry a pregnancy.
He also knew his grandfather’s trust required biological descendants born during a valid marriage before Grant’s fortieth birthday.
Divorcing me and using a surrogate afterward risked missing the deadline and triggering a different distribution structure.
So Grant proposed something monstrous.
He wanted Vanessa’s embryos transferred to me without my knowledge.
Keller initially refused.
Then Grant offered $2.4 million.
That changed his ethics.
“What about Emily?”
I asked.
Ortiz’s jaw tightened.
“Grant and Vanessa had five viable embryos. Keller said Grant wanted proof the process could work without detection.”
My stomach turned.
“So Emily was a test?”
“Keller claims Emily’s transfer was an accident.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No.”
Neither did I.
Emily and Aaron had come to the clinic for IVF.
Keller secretly substituted one of Grant and Vanessa’s embryos.
When Emily became pregnant, Grant allegedly monitored the pregnancy through Keller.
After Noah’s birth, concern shifted to DNA.
Emily had mentioned using an ancestry-testing service for the baby when he got older.
Keller feared exposure.
The prosecution suspected her death prevented immediate scrutiny.
Keller denied intentionally causing it.
The heparin order said otherwise.
Then Ortiz told me about my embryos.
All three had been removed from the clinic twelve days after my retrieval.
“To where?”
“Keller claims Grant ordered them transferred to an affiliated storage facility.”
“Which one?”
“There was no storage facility.”
I stared at her.
“Then where are they?”
“He says Morton handled it.”
The fugitive doctor.
Elise Morton had disappeared.
Federal authorities traced her to Mexico City, then lost the trail.
Interpol notices went out.
Meanwhile, reporters discovered my missing embryos and turned my reproductive history into public entertainment.
One headline read:
THE $112 MILLION BABY SCHEME
I stopped reading.
The twins remained in the NICU for six weeks.
Those weeks became the strangest period of my life.
Every morning, I sat beside their incubators.
Every afternoon, lawyers arrived.
Every evening, investigators updated me.
My marriage dissolved in court paperwork while my children learned to breathe.
Grant sent letters through his attorney.
I refused them.
Then Rachel convinced me to read one.
“Why?”
“Because sometimes narcissists confess when they’re trying to justify themselves.”
She was right.
Grant’s letter began:
Claire, I never wanted you hurt.
A lie in the first sentence.
He wrote that he had loved me.
That Vanessa had been a “mistake that became complicated.”
That he had wanted children desperately.
That after years of failed IVF, he became convinced my eggs were the problem.
That Vanessa offered hers.
That he panicked about the trust deadline.
Then:
You would have loved the babies no matter whose DNA they carried. I knew that about you.
I had to stop reading.
He used my capacity to love as justification for violating me.
Then came the sentence Rachel had been waiting for.
I delayed the ambulance because I believed you were already going to expose everything, and for those few minutes I convinced myself that losing you might be easier than losing our children.
Rachel pointed.
“There.”
Intent.
Grant’s attorneys later argued it was an emotional statement, not a literal confession.
Prosecutors disagreed.
The attempted murder charge was strengthened.
Vanessa’s case also deteriorated.
Her lawyers initially painted the shove as impulsive self-defense.
The video made that difficult.
Then police recovered an audio message she had sent Grant three days before the gala.
If Claire learns those babies are mine, she’ll take them from us. I won’t let that happen.
Not enough to prove premeditated murder.
Enough to establish motive.
The biggest breakthrough came from Rebecca.
She remembered Morton kept a private paper ledger because she distrusted electronic systems.
Police searched a storage unit rented under Morton’s sister’s name.
Inside were financial records, consent forms, cash payment logs—and shipping documents.
One shipment listed three embryos from my retrieval.
Destination:
NorthStar Cryogenic Services — Toronto, Canada.
The FBI contacted Canadian authorities.
NorthStar had closed nine months earlier after a bankruptcy.
Its stored specimens had been transferred to multiple facilities.
Records were incomplete.
I sat in Rachel’s office after my twins finally left the hospital.
Emma slept in a carrier.
James rested against my chest.
“Can we find them?”
Rachel looked at the documents.
“We can try.”
“Try isn’t enough.”
“It’s what we have.”
I looked down at James.
“What if someone used them?”
Rachel didn’t answer.
That possibility haunted me.
If Grant and Keller were willing to use me without consent, why not someone else?
Weeks passed.
Investigators followed chain-of-custody records through Canada.
Two of my embryos appeared to have been transferred to a facility in Vancouver.
The third had a different notation.
Released to intended parent.
“What intended parent?”
Nobody knew.
The signature was illegible.
The release form referenced a patient number, not a name.
Police asked Keller.
He claimed ignorance.
Grant denied knowing.
Morton remained missing.
Then one morning, six weeks after the twins came home, I received a call from Detective Ortiz.
“We found Dr. Morton.”
My pulse jumped.
“Where?”
“Lisbon.”
“Portugal?”
“Portuguese authorities detained her.”
“When is she coming back?”
“Extradition will take time.”
“Does she know where my embryos went?”
“We believe so.”
It took four months.
During that time, I learned motherhood under siege.
Emma developed reflux.
James refused to sleep unless held.
I rarely wore anything without spit-up on it.
And for the first time in years, my life felt real.
Not polished.
Not curated.
Not designed to impress Grant’s investors.
Real.
My parents moved into the guesthouse temporarily.
Aaron visited with Noah.
Watching Noah beside Emma and James was surreal.
Biologically, they were full siblings.
Legally, emotionally, historically, their lives belonged to entirely different families.
Aaron and I became friends because there was no ordinary category for what connected us.
Our children had been created from the same deception.
When Morton was finally returned to North Carolina, federal prosecutors charged her with conspiracy, fraud, unlawful handling of human reproductive tissue, and obstruction.
She demanded protection.
Apparently Keller’s network included people wealthier and more dangerous than Grant.
Then she asked to speak to me.
Ortiz advised against it.
Rachel agreed.
I insisted.
We met through glass at the detention facility.
Morton looked older than I remembered.
No makeup.
Gray showing at her roots.
She picked up the phone.
“So.”
That word enraged me.
“So?”
“You found out.”
“You put another woman’s embryos inside me.”
“Yes.”
No apology.
“Where are mine?”
Morton studied me.
“Two are frozen in Vancouver.”
“And the third?”
She hesitated.
“Transferred.”
“To whom?”
“You don’t want that answer.”
I leaned toward the glass.
“You don’t get to decide what I want anymore.”
She looked away.
“Grant selected the recipient.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“A woman named Natalie Price.”
I had never heard the name.
“Why?”
Morton’s expression shifted.
“She wasn’t a stranger.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“Who is she?”
Morton stared at me.
“She was Grant’s first wife.”
I froze.
Grant had never been married before me.
At least that was what he had told me.
Morton continued.
“And if our records are correct, she gave birth eight months ago.”
The world tilted.
“To what?”
“A little girl.”
My throat closed.
May you like
Morton looked almost sympathetic.
“Claire, you may already have a biological daughter.”
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