Chapter 2 - THEY HAD BEEN TESTING FIONA WITHOUT MY CONSENT
I did not let Wendy touch her.
Not once.
Marcus arrived before we left the building.
Two of his security staff came with him.
No weapons drawn.
No drama.
Just witnesses.
I told him:
“Photograph every room we are lawfully allowed to see. Do not touch records.”
Then I looked at Daniel.
“You’re coming with us.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Then I call the police and tell them a man legally declared dead eight years ago is participating in unauthorized medical testing of my daughter.”
That changed him.
Wendy snapped:
“Stop threatening people.”
I turned.
“You threatened a seven-year-old into keeping secrets from her father.”
Her face shifted.
“You don’t understand.”
“Good. Explain.”
She did not.
Fiona whispered:
“Daddy, can we go home?”
That ended the discussion.
We left.
I took her to her pediatrician first.
No needles had been used that day.
Thank God.
Only cheek swabs.
Photographs.
Height.
Weight.
A hearing test.
But Fiona said Wendy had taken her there before.
“How many times, sweetheart?”
She held up four fingers.
Four.
My heart twisted.
“What happens there?”
“They ask questions.”
“What kind?”
She looked at me.
“About Mommy.”
My skin tightened.
“What about Mommy?”
“If Mommy gets sad.”
“If Mommy yells.”
“If Mommy sleeps.”
“If Mommy forgets things.”
“And about you?”
Fiona nodded.
“If you go away a lot.”
Then:
“They ask if I want to live with Grandma when you’re busy.”
I stopped breathing.
“Who asks?”
“The lady with the purple glasses.”
A psychologist?
Maybe.
Then Fiona whispered:
“Grandma says I have to answer right or Mommy gets sick again.”
Again.
“What does that mean?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Then:
“Grandma says Mommy had a bad brain before I was born.”
My stomach dropped.
Jessi had never told me anything like that.
Not depression?
Not hospitalization?
Nothing.
I called her.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
Then a text:
In meetings. Everything okay?
I typed:
Come home. Now.
She replied:
Can’t. Why?
I sent one photograph.
Daniel.
Standing outside Northstar Pediatric Genetics.
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
Then again.
Finally:
Where did you get that?
Not:
He’s alive?
Not:
Impossible.
She knew.
I stared at the screen.
My wife knew her dead brother was alive.
I called.
She answered on the first ring.
“What are you doing?”
My voice came out quieter than I expected.
“You knew.”
Silence.
“Jessi.”
“I can explain.”
I laughed once.
Of course.
“Did you know your mother was taking Fiona to that clinic?”
“No.”
“Did you know Daniel was there?”
Longer silence.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“How long have you known he was alive?”
“Six years.”
Six.
We had been married eleven.
Fiona was seven.
Jessi had known for most of our daughter’s life.
“Come home.”
“Graham—”
“Now.”
She arrived ninety minutes later.
No makeup.
Hair pulled back.
Hands shaking.
I had never seen her look that frightened.
Not even when Fiona had pneumonia at three.
She looked at our daughter first.
“Baby.”
Fiona ran to me instead.
Jessi’s face broke.
That mattered.
I told Fiona to go upstairs with Marcus’s wife, Elena, whom she trusted.
Then Jessi and I sat in my study.
The door closed.
I placed Daniel’s photograph on the desk.
“Start.”
She stared.
“Daniel didn’t die.”
“I’ve figured that out.”
“He disappeared.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the ceiling as if Fiona might hear through two floors.
“Because my mother said he tried to kill himself.”
I said nothing.
“Eight years ago, Daniel was addicted to pain medication. He stole from a clinic where he worked. There was an investigation. Mom said if it became public, he would go to prison and destroy the family.”
“So she faked his death?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does exactly look like?”
Daniel had driven his car into the Ohio River during a storm.
Vehicle recovered.
No body.
Wendy identified personal belongings.
After months, the family petitioned to declare him dead.
Everyone assumed suicide.
But Daniel had actually gone into private treatment under another name.
Wendy knew.
Jessi learned two years later.
“Why hide it from me?”
“Daniel begged.”
“Why?”
“He said he had done things that could hurt us.”
“What things?”
She started crying.
“I don’t know all of it.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
Daniel had worked for a pharmaceutical research clinic connected to a company called Northstar Health Systems.
The same Northstar name now on Fiona’s genetic clinic.
That was not coincidence.
Then Jessi said:
“Graham, the year before Daniel disappeared, I was a patient there.”
My chest tightened.
“For what?”
She looked at me.
“Fertility treatment.”
I froze.
Jessi and I had tried for almost two years before Fiona.
I knew about three doctors.
Two clinics.
None called Northstar.
“You never told me.”
“I went without you.”
“Why?”
“Because your acquisition schedule was insane and I was desperate.”
That hurt.
Fairly.
Then:
“What treatment?”
“Egg retrieval.”
I stared.
“We never did IVF.”
“I didn’t think we did.”
“What does that mean?”
Jessi covered her face.
“I had six eggs retrieved. I changed my mind before fertilization. I told them to destroy them.”
My pulse became loud in my ears.
“And?”
“Daniel called me months later and said Northstar had kept samples improperly.”
“What samples?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
Then Fiona was conceived naturally six months later.
Or so we believed.
Now a secret pediatric genetics clinic tied to Daniel was testing our daughter.
I asked:
“Did you ever confirm those eggs were destroyed?”
Jessi looked down.
“No.”
That was when Marcus knocked.
He entered holding a preliminary corporate search.
“Northstar Pediatric Genetics is owned by a holding company.”
“Whose?”
He handed me the page.
Majority owner:
WENDY MERCER FAMILY TRUST.
My mother-in-law owned the clinic secretly testing my daughter.
But the minority owner was worse.
GRAHAM WHITLOCK FAMILY OFFICE — 24%.
My company.
My money.
My signature.
May you like
I had apparently invested in the clinic myself.
And I had absolutely no memory of doing it.
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