Chapter 3 - THE STORAGE UNIT
Julian never made it out of the house.
The deputy caught him halfway down the stairs.
His sudden attempt to run changed everything.
Thirty minutes later, Lena Morales was standing in the driveway talking to the deputies while Julian’s attorney shouted into his phone.
Nobody arrested Julian.
Not yet.
Running from your bedroom during a divorce dispute was not a crime.
But destroying evidence could be.
And suddenly, everyone wanted to know why a fertility laboratory receipt pointed to an abandoned storage complex outside Providence.
Garrison wanted to know most of all.
We drove there the next morning.
Lena insisted on getting a court-approved preservation order first.
“No cowboy nonsense,” she warned Garrison.
He looked offended.
“I was a sheriff.”
“Which is exactly why I said it.”
Unit 214 was registered to a company called Delphine Medical Consulting.
I had never heard the name.
Lena had.
“It received three transfers from your joint account.”
I stared at her.
“How much?”
“Forty-eight thousand dollars.”
My stomach dropped.
Julian had transferred nearly fifty thousand dollars of our money into a company tied to this place before emptying the rest.
The facility manager opened the unit only after receiving the court order.
There were no medical machines inside.
No freezers.
No laboratory equipment.
Just boxes.
Hundreds of them.
Some were labeled with years.
Others with initials.
Garrison went still.
“Don’t touch anything.”
The facility manager frowned.
“They’re just files.”
“No,” Garrison said. “They’re evidence.”
He called a number from memory.
Not 911.
Someone answered immediately.
“Blackwood.”
A pause.
“I found 214.”
Another pause.
“No. Cedar Hollow.”
His voice changed.
“Send the healthcare unit.”
I stared at him.
“What healthcare unit?”
He hung up.
“You said you were retired.”
“I am.”
“Retired sheriffs don’t call mysterious healthcare units.”
“No.”
“Who did you just call?”
Garrison looked at Lena.
She seemed just as curious.
Before he could answer, a box near the back caught my eye.
MERCER.
My married name.
I walked toward it.
Garrison blocked me.
“Wait for the investigators.”
“My name is on it.”
“That doesn’t mean you should touch it.”
“What else could Julian possibly have taken from me?”
Garrison’s face tightened.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Twenty minutes later, three unmarked vehicles arrived.
The people who stepped out were not local police.
They wore jackets marked OIG.
Office of Inspector General.
A fourth vehicle belonged to the state attorney general’s office.
One investigator saw Garrison and stopped.
“Blackbird?”
Lena slowly turned toward him.
I did too.
Garrison did not look happy.
“Not here.”
The investigator immediately understood.
But I didn’t.
“Blackbird?”
Garrison ignored me.
Forensic teams entered the storage unit.
Boxes were photographed before anyone touched them.
The MERCER box was opened under supervision.
Inside were copies of my fertility records.
Every page.
Every procedure.
Every failed cycle.
Every loss.
Some documents had handwritten notes.
Some had been altered.
I knew because I still remembered the originals.
One page claimed I had “declining ovarian response.”
Another marked me as “primary infertility, probable female origin.”
Then an investigator found a second version of the same test.
Same date.
Same doctor.
Different result.
NORMAL OVARIAN RESPONSE.
NO IDENTIFIED FEMALE-FACTOR INFERTILITY.
I had to sit down.
For years, I had believed I was defective.
The truth was sitting inside a cardboard box.
Someone had changed my records.
But the worst document was beneath them.
An email.
From Julian to Dr. Martin Halpern at Beacon.
KEEP HER FOCUSED ON HER SIDE.
IF SHE STARTS ASKING ABOUT MY NUMBERS, CALL ME FIRST.
My hands began shaking so violently Lena took the paper from me.
Garrison crouched in front of my chair.
“Look at me.”
I couldn’t.
“Why?”
The word came out broken.
“Why would he do this?”
Lena answered before Garrison could.
“Money.”
I looked up.
She held another document.
A trust agreement.
The Mercer Family Continuation Trust.
Established by Julian’s grandfather.
Current value:
$38.6 million.
The principal could transfer to Julian only after the verified birth of his biological child.
I read the sentence three times.
Then I looked toward Chloe.
She was not there.
But suddenly her pregnancy made terrible sense.
Julian had not left me because he had finally found a woman who could give him a child.
He had left me because he needed the world to believe he had.
One investigator opened another folder.
He went silent.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at Garrison.
Garrison took the page.
His face lost all color.
I stood.
“What is it?”
He tried to hide it.
I grabbed the document first.
At the top was a list of names.
Women.
Dates.
Patient numbers.
Beside several names was one word:
TRANSFERRED.
My name was third from the bottom.
And beside it was a code.
B-17.
I stared at Garrison.
“What does B-17 mean?”
His answer was almost a whisper.
“I don’t know.”
The investigator behind him did.
“Yes, you do.”
Garrison turned.
May you like
The man looked grim.
“B-17 was the embryo program.”
