Chapter 5
The DNA test could not happen fast enough.
Because I was twenty-seven weeks pregnant, doctors used a noninvasive prenatal paternity test.
My blood.
Cole’s cheek swab.
No risk to the baby.
Then we waited.
Forty-eight hours.
They were the longest two days of my life.
I stayed at Emma’s house.
Cole moved into a hotel.
Darla stayed with a friend because I could not bear to see her.
Eli remained with Emma temporarily under Darla’s foster arrangement.
That part required careful legal handling.
Rebecca contacted a family-law specialist immediately.
Nobody told Eli the truth yet.
He knew adults were upset.
That was enough.
The first night, he knocked on the guest-room door.
“Aunt Hannah?”
“Come in.”
He carried his blanket.
“Can I sit?”
“Always.”
He climbed beside me.
“Did Grandma do something bad?”
My throat tightened.
“Why do you ask?”
“She keeps crying.”
Children noticed everything.
“She made some mistakes.”
“Is she going to jail?”
The question hit me.
“I don’t know.”
He looked worried.
“Will I have to go away?”
I almost broke.
“No.”
I said it before lawyers could promise anything.
Then I corrected myself carefully.
“We are going to make sure you are safe.”
He stared at my belly.
“Will the baby live here too?”
“One day.”
“Can I teach her Lego?”
I smiled through tears.
“Yes.”
He leaned against me.
My son.
And I still couldn’t call him that.
Not yet.
The next morning, Rebecca arrived with investigators.
Not police yet.
Medical fraud attorneys.
Northstar Fertility had closed seven years earlier after quietly settling lawsuits.
Records showed Mitchell Grant owned twelve percent through an investment partnership.
My mother had owned four percent.
“What about Cole?” I asked.
Rebecca shook her head.
“No ownership.”
“But he knew Mitchell.”
“Yes.”
Cole had done construction work for a Northstar renovation before the clinic closed.
That explained the old photograph.
Partly.
He had learned pieces of the scandal.
Darla later asked him to meet me because she thought someone familiar with Mitchell could help if legal trouble resurfaced.
Twisted logic.
Still betrayal.
Then Rebecca found Rachel Moreno.
The surrogate.
She lived in Phoenix.
She agreed to a video interview.
When her face appeared on screen, I stopped breathing.
She was fifty now.
Dark hair streaked with gray.
She looked nervous.
“Are you Hannah?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
I hated those words.
Everyone kept saying them after decisions that changed my life.
“Tell me about Eli.”
She nodded.
Rachel had been twenty-seven when Northstar recruited her.
She was promised $60,000 to carry an embryo for an anonymous married couple.
“They told me everything was legal.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
“When did you learn?”
“After the pregnancy.”
She discovered there was no intended couple.
Northstar was studying implantation success using embryos created from patients’ stored genetic material without proper consent.
My stomach turned.
“And my son?”
“They called him Embryo H-19.”
I nearly vomited.
Not Eli.
Not a child.
A number.
“Who chose his name?”
“I did.”
That surprised me.
Rachel smiled sadly.
“Eli was the name I used when I talked to him during pregnancy.”
My eyes filled.
“Did you want to keep him?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“They threatened me.”
“Who?”
“Mitchell.”
My hands clenched.
Rachel said Mitchell told her the embryo was stolen property and she could be prosecuted if she fought.
She was young.
Poor.
Afraid.
After birth, Eli was taken.
She never saw him again.
“I tried finding him.”
“Why didn’t you contact police?”
“I did.”
Her face hardened.
“No one believed me because the paperwork listed another family.”
Rebecca asked:
“Who raised him?”
“Dr. Paul Mercer and his wife Cynthia.”
We had heard those names from Darla.
Both researchers.
“They knew?”
Rachel nodded.
“They knew everything.”
My chest hurt.
“Where are they?”
“Paul died.”
“And Cynthia?”
“California.”
Rebecca wrote quickly.
Then Rachel said:
“Hannah, there’s something else.”
I braced.
“During the pregnancy, I overheard them discussing other embryos.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
My mother had said the same.
“One was marked for preservation.”
“And the other?”
Rachel hesitated.
“Transfer.”
My breath stopped.
“To another surrogate?”
“I think so.”
“When?”
“The year after Eli.”
There might be another child.
About seven years old.
Somewhere.
I pressed my hand to my chest.
Rebecca asked:
“Any identifiers?”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“I remember a code.”
She wrote it down.
H-22.
We sent it to investigators.
Then the paternity results arrived.
Dr. Greene called me personally.
Cole was not my daughter’s biological father.
I expected devastation.
Instead, I felt strangely calm.
My daughter kicked while he spoke.
She was still mine.
Nothing changed that.
“Do you know the biological donor?”
“We matched the archived accession number.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who?”
“It was not an anonymous donor.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then who?”
“Mitchell Grant.”
The room went silent.
I stared at Rebecca.
“No.”
Dr. Greene continued carefully.
“According to genetic comparison from retained donor records, Mitchell is the biological father.”
I almost dropped the phone.
My unborn daughter had been conceived with sperm from the man connected to stealing my eggs.
This wasn’t a lab accident.
It couldn’t be.
Not with his name on custody forms.
Not with his history.
Someone had deliberately used Mitchell’s sample.
“Why?”
Dr. Greene could not answer.
Rebecca could guess.
“Control.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“If Mitchell knew the baby was biologically his, he could use that.”
“For what?”
“Custody threats.”
My blood turned cold.
Then my phone rang again.
Mitchell.
His name appeared as if summoned.
I had not spoken to him in almost eight years.
Rebecca immediately started recording.
I answered.
“Hannah.”
His voice was warm.
Too warm.
“I heard you found out.”
My skin crawled.
“You did this.”
He sighed.
“It’s complicated.”
“You used your sperm in my IVF cycle.”
“Technically, the clinic did.”
“On whose instruction?”
Silence.
I screamed:
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
There.
No confusion.
No accident.
“Why?”
“Because your mother owed me.”
I looked at Darla’s empty seat.
“What does that mean?”
“Northstar cost me millions.”
“So you used my body to settle a debt?”
“No.”
His tone changed.
“This was bigger.”
“What?”
“Eli.”
My heart pounded.
“What about him?”
“He’s evidence.”
“Of your crimes?”
“Of an asset.”
I felt sick.
“You call him an asset?”
“The genetic line has value.”
I stared at the phone.
“What genetic line?”
He laughed softly.
“You really don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“Your father.”
My breath stopped.
My father, Thomas, died when I was twelve.
“What about him?”
“He wasn’t just an accountant like Darla told you.”
I looked at Emma.
She stared back.
Mitchell continued:
“Your father was one of Northstar’s original genetic donors.”
My stomach turned.
“What?”
“He carried a rare hereditary mutation.”
Rebecca whispered:
“What mutation?”
Mitchell heard her.
“So lawyers are listening.”
“Answer.”
He laughed.
“Certain regenerative traits. Valuable research.”
This sounded insane.
Maybe it was.
But then he said something simpler.
“Your eggs were valuable because of the mutation.”
My mother knew.
That was why she invested.
That was why Northstar used my genetic material.
Not random experimentation.
Targeted theft.
Then Mitchell said:
“And your daughter is the first child created from both lines.”
I felt cold.
“What lines?”
“Yours and mine.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because I carry the complementary marker.”
Rebecca’s face hardened.
“This sounds like illegal human genetic experimentation.”
Mitchell became quiet.
Then:
“Call it whatever makes you comfortable.”
I wanted to throw the phone.
Instead, I asked:
“Where is the second child?”
Silence.
He knew.
“Mitchell.”
“The H-22 child?”
“Yes.”
He sighed.
“She’s safe.”
She.
A girl.
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“When?”
“When you give me something first.”
Rebecca shook her head.
I ignored her.
“What?”
Mitchell’s voice became calm.
“Eli.”
My entire body went cold.
“You want my son?”
“He belongs with the program.”
I nearly screamed.
“He belongs with no one except people who love him.”
“Then you’ll never find H-22.”
The call ended.
I sat motionless.
One child was beside me.
May you like
One was inside me.
And somewhere, another little girl carrying my DNA might be waiting for someone to finally tell her where she came from.
