Chapter 7 - The Test That Could Not Be True
“No.”
The word came from both Wyatt and me.
Agent Ellis looked from the report to Wyatt.
“You deny being the father?”
“I met Anna yesterday.”
David’s fraudulent document should have been absurd.
Instead, everyone stared at us as though a new crime had entered the room.
I grabbed the paper.
The report displayed my name, my physician’s office, and the date of my prenatal screening. Wyatt Hale was listed as the biological father with a probability greater than 99.9 percent.
“This is fake.”
“Most likely,” Mara said.
“Most likely?”
“The laboratory number is valid. We need to verify the underlying sample.”
Wyatt wiped blood from his cheek.
“Why would David create a paternity report naming me before we ever met?”
That was the question none of us could answer.
At the hospital, Dr. Patel treated my arm and ordered another ultrasound.
The baby remained stable, but I was placed on bed rest.
Claire stayed beside me, wrapped in a hospital blanket.
Her wrists were bruised from the ropes. Every few minutes, she looked toward the doorway as if David might appear.
“I’m sorry,” I told her.
“For what?”
“He took you because of me.”
“He took me because he’s a criminal.”
“I should have left him years ago.”
“You survived him for years. That isn’t the same as choosing him.”
Her words sounded similar to something Denise had said.
People outside an abusive marriage spoke as though leaving were a door.
They did not see the locks, the threats, the empty bank account, or the knowledge that the most dangerous moment often came when the victim tried to escape.
A laboratory technician arrived to collect blood from me.
Mara arranged independent testing for Wyatt.
“We’ll have preliminary results within twenty-four hours,” she said.
“Why are we entertaining this?” Wyatt asked. “It is impossible.”
“Because David believed the document mattered.”
Detective Ortega entered carrying a file.
“We searched the warehouse tunnel. It leads to a storm drain two blocks away. David had a vehicle waiting.”
“He planned everything,” I said.
“Not everything. We arrested Charles and six employees. Federal agents are seizing company servers.”
“What has Charles said?”
“Nothing.”
Mara opened the file.
“But we identified the unknown woman in the photograph from Box 317.”
She placed the image on the tray table.
The woman standing beside Rachel, David, and Charles had blond hair and wore medical scrubs.
“Her name was Dr. Helen Ward,” Mara said. “She worked at a fertility clinic.”
A strange pressure built behind my ribs.
“What fertility clinic?”
“St. Matthew’s Reproductive Center.”
I looked at Claire.
She understood before I did.
“Anna went there,” she said.
Five years earlier, after three miscarriages, David had taken me to St. Matthew’s.
The doctor told us that conceiving naturally might be difficult.
We completed two unsuccessful fertility treatments.
Then the clinic closed unexpectedly after a fire destroyed part of the laboratory.
A year later, I became pregnant naturally—or so I believed.
“What was Rachel doing with a fertility doctor?” Wyatt asked.
Mara turned the photograph over.
A date was printed in the corner.
It had been taken six years ago, shortly before Rachel died.
“Dr. Ward handled genetic testing for Mercer Development executives,” Mara said. “She may have helped Charles identify Daniel Mercer’s bloodline.”
Wyatt stared at the photograph.
“My sister volunteered at a women’s clinic. Maybe she met Ward through work.”
“Or she discovered the fertility clinic was involved in the fraud,” Ortega added.
I thought about the prenatal test.
David had scheduled it.
David transported the sample.
David received the results before I did.
“What if the paternity report isn’t about my current pregnancy?” I asked.
Mara’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean?”
“What if they used old samples?”
Wyatt sat down.
“From Rachel?”
The possibility froze the room.
Mara began making calls.
Within hours, the investigation uncovered records hidden inside the seized company servers.
Charles Mercer had paid St. Matthew’s hundreds of thousands of dollars over a decade.
The payments were disguised as corporate wellness expenses.
Dr. Ward had stored genetic profiles belonging to Mercer relatives, employees, and women connected to the company.
Wyatt’s profile was among them.
“How did they get my DNA?” he demanded.
“Company insurance screening,” Mara said. “You worked briefly for a Mercer-owned construction contractor twelve years ago.”
Wyatt remembered the mandatory physical.
Blood had been taken.
The company had kept it.
“Why would they place his name on my baby’s test?” I asked.
Mara sat beside me.
“They may have used Wyatt as a control sample because of Rachel.”
“That still doesn’t explain the match.”
“No.”
The next morning, the independent results arrived.
Dr. Patel entered with Mara and a genetic specialist.
The specialist’s expression made my heart pound.
“Mrs. Mercer,” she said, “Mr. Hale is not the biological father of your unborn child.”
Relief moved through me.
Wyatt exhaled.
“But,” the specialist continued, “the original report contained a real genetic relationship.”
I looked at her.
“Between whom?”
“The fetal DNA sample and Mr. Hale show a close familial connection.”
Wyatt stood completely still.
“What kind?”
“Based on the available markers, Mr. Hale is most likely the child’s biological uncle.”
The room went silent.
Wyatt’s voice came out rough.
“I had one brother.”
“Where is he?” Mara asked.
“He died ten years ago.”
“What was his name?”
“Ethan.”
Mara looked at Ortega.
He was already searching the database.
Moments later, his expression changed.
“Ethan Hale’s death certificate was issued after a boating accident,” he said. “The body was never recovered.”
Wyatt stared at the floor.
“My brother is alive?”
Mara’s phone rang.
She answered, listened, then slowly turned toward me.
“St. Matthew’s archived files list the donor used in your fertility treatment.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who?”
She placed the recovered record in front of us.
The donor’s legal name was Ethan Hale.
Beneath it, an alias had been added years later.
May you like
Michael Brooks.
My brother’s name.
