Chapter 7
I had spent twenty-five years believing that my medical history belonged to me.
Now a dangerous man was sitting inside a private clinic with embryos created from my stolen eggs.
And the police were trying to prevent him from moving them.
I looked down at Daisy.
She was sleeping peacefully.
She didn't know any of this.
She didn't know that strangers had treated her existence like a financial transaction.
She didn't know her biological mother was fifty-one years old.
Or that the woman who had carried her had nearly lost her.
All she knew was warmth.
A gentle voice.
A heartbeat.
I kissed her forehead.
"I won't let them use anyone else," I whispered.
Detective Brooks explained that officers were coordinating with medical regulators and a specialist laboratory.
The embryos couldn't simply be seized and carried away like ordinary evidence.
They required proper storage.
Temperature monitoring.
Documented handling.
And careful identification.
"We're making sure they're protected," she told me.
I closed my eyes.
"Thank you."
Then she said something unexpected.
"We may need you to identify an old document."
"What document?"
"A consent form."
My stomach tightened.
"Christopher's?"
"No."
She paused.
"One bearing your signature."
I felt cold.
"That's impossible."
"We believe it may have been forged."
I looked at my husband.
He was watching me.
"Send it," I whispered.
Minutes later, an encrypted copy arrived through the investigator's secure portal.
I opened it.
There was my maiden name.
Rebecca Bennett.
Written in blue ink.
Below a paragraph authorizing reproductive research.
I stared at the signature.
It looked like mine.
But something was wrong.
I enlarged the document.
My heart stopped.
"I know where this came from."
Christopher stepped closer.
"What?"
I turned the phone toward him.
"That's the signature from our mortgage paperwork."
He frowned.
"What?"
"The little loop in the B."
I could barely breathe.
"I remember signing that form. The pen leaked. I complained about it for weeks."
Christopher examined the image.
Then his face changed.
"You're right."
I looked at the date.
The forged form was dated three months after we'd bought our first house.
The original mortgage document had been signed during the same period.
"Patricia was there," I whispered.
Christopher stared at me.
"What?"
"She helped us organize the paperwork."
I remembered sitting at our kitchen table.
Patricia sorting documents.
Christopher making coffee.
Me signing page after page.
I had trusted her.
I had let her handle everything.
And somehow, she had used my signature to give away something far more precious than money.
I sent the information to Detective Brooks.
Within an hour, investigators obtained the original mortgage document for comparison.
A forensic examiner later confirmed that the signature on the Westbridge authorization appeared to have been copied from another source.
The discovery changed everything.
Until then, Victor's lawyers had claimed the reproductive material had been lawfully obtained.
Now there was evidence that my consent had been fabricated.
And the person with access to the original signature was my sister-in-law.
Late that afternoon, Detective Brooks called again.
"Victor Lang is in custody."
I sat down.
"Really?"
"Yes."
I covered my mouth.
For the first time in two days, I felt I could breathe.
"Where was he?"
"At the clinic. The remaining stored material has been secured under court supervision."
I started crying.
"Thank you."
"But Patricia is still missing."
I closed my eyes.
"Of course she is."
Detective Brooks hesitated.
"There's another issue."
"What?"
"Victor has started talking."
My heart raced.
"What did he say?"
"He claims Patricia was more involved in the financial arrangements than we initially believed."
I stared at the wall.
"How involved?"
"He says she recruited patients, obtained documents, and arranged payments."
I felt sick.
"She chose me?"
"We believe so."
I closed my eyes.
For twenty-eight years, Patricia had smiled at me across holiday tables.
She had hugged my children.
She had watched me cry when my own mother died.
And all that time, she had been hiding this.
"Why?" I whispered.
Detective Brooks answered quietly.
"Money."
I laughed through my tears.
"All this for money."
That evening, my sons took turns sitting with Leah and Daisy so I could go home.
I hadn't slept properly since Christopher's phone call.
My body felt heavy.
My head hurt.
Everything seemed unreal.
Christopher drove.
Neither of us spoke for the first ten minutes.
Then he said, "I found a marriage counselor."
I turned toward him.
"What?"
"I called this afternoon."
I stared at the road.
"Christopher, I don't know if I want to save our marriage."
His hands tightened around the steering wheel.
"I understand."
"Do you?"
He nodded.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight."
"Then what are you asking?"
"A chance to become someone you can trust again."
I looked out the window.
The familiar streets passed by.
Our neighborhood.
Our grocery store.
The little park where our sons had played.
Everything looked exactly the same.
But nothing felt the same.
"I need space," I whispered.
Christopher nodded.
"I'll stay somewhere else."
I looked at him.
"You don't have to leave the house."
"I think you need room to breathe."
His voice broke.
"And I need to face what I did without asking you to make me feel better."
For the first time, I believed he understood a small part of the damage.
When we arrived home, Matthew was waiting.
He had cleaned the kitchen.
Daniel had stocked the refrigerator.
Jacob had placed fresh flowers on the dining table.
There was a little card beside them.
We love you, Mom.
Always.
I started crying.
Matthew wrapped an arm around me.
"You're home."
I leaned into him.
"Yes."
For one beautiful moment, I felt safe.
Then the doorbell rang.
Matthew checked the security camera.
His expression changed.
"Mom."
"What?"
He turned toward me.
"There's someone outside."
I approached the monitor.
A woman stood on our porch.
Gray hair.
A dark blue coat.
A folder clutched tightly against her chest.
I recognized her from an old newspaper photograph Detective Brooks had shown me.
Evelyn Marsh.
The former Westbridge laboratory technician.
Matthew opened the door.
She looked directly at me.
"Rebecca Hayes?"
I nodded.
She began crying.
"I've wanted to apologize to you for twenty-five years."
I stepped aside.
"Please come in."
She shook her head.
"I can't stay long."
Then she handed me the folder.
"Victor didn't tell the police everything."
My heart started pounding.
"What do you mean?"
Evelyn's hands trembled.
"There was another woman involved."
"Patricia?"
Evelyn shook her head.
"No."
I stared at her.
She swallowed.
"The woman who paid for the research."
I couldn't move.
"Who?"
Evelyn looked at Christopher.
May you like
Then at me.
"Your mother-in-law."
