Chapter 4 - THE EMPTY GRAVE
Khloe refused sedation.
She refused sleep.
And when Adrian suggested she remain in the hospital while Marcus investigated the possibility that their first child’s death had been falsified, she refused that too.
“No.”
“Khloe,” Marcus said.
“That was my baby.”
“Our baby.”
“Then don’t ask me to wait quietly.”
Marcus looked at Adrian.
Adrian sighed.
“She stays in a wheelchair.”
Khloe frowned.
“I can walk.”
“You can also argue from a wheelchair.”
Twenty minutes later, they entered a secure records room beneath Mercer Memorial.
Adrian had requested every document related to Khloe’s first pregnancy.
The hospital had not handled the miscarriage itself.
A private clinic had.
That clinic had closed six months later.
Conveniently.
Adrian placed the records on a table.
“According to this, fetal demise was confirmed at eleven weeks.”
Khloe looked away.
Marcus squeezed her hand.
“What happened afterward?”
Adrian hesitated.
“The clinic recommended a surgical procedure.”
“I remember.”
Khloe’s voice trembled.
“They told me there was no heartbeat.”
Marcus remembered sitting beside her.
He remembered signing papers.
He remembered a nurse taking Khloe away.
Then—
Nothing.
He had never seen remains.
Never asked.
They had been grieving.
“Was pathology performed?”
Adrian searched.
His expression changed.
“There should be a pathology report.”
“Is there?”
“No.”
Khloe’s breathing quickened.
“Then what happened to my baby?”
Adrian continued searching.
A transfer record existed.
But the identification number belonged to another patient.
“Clerical error?” Marcus asked.
“Possibly.”
Nobody believed it.
Then Adrian found the name of the physician who signed the discharge.
Samuel Voss.
Khloe stared.
“He treated me?”
“You may not have known. He signed electronically as consulting physician.”
Marcus called the detective.
“Bring Voss in.”
“They’re moving now.”
Vittorio had already been detained for questioning.
Isabella too.
But Samuel Voss had disappeared from the hangar before officers arrived.
Someone warned him.
Julian called again.
Marcus answered immediately.
“Where is Voss?”
“Still asking the wrong questions.”
“Then educate me.”
Julian laughed softly.
“Ask what Voss sells.”
“Medical records?”
“No.”
“What?”
“Children.”
Marcus went completely still.
Khloe heard.
Her face drained.
“Explain.”
“Voss has spent twenty years arranging private adoptions for people who don’t want paperwork.”
“Illegal adoptions?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happened to our baby?”
Silence.
“Julian.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
“Why mention children?”
“Because Voss told Vittorio your first pregnancy created a problem.”
“What problem?”
“The baby existed before the inheritance plan was ready.”
Marcus felt sick.
“Khloe miscarried.”
“Did she?”
Khloe covered her mouth.
Marcus lowered his voice.
“If you know where our child is—”
“I don’t.”
“Then help me find Voss.”
Pause.
“Why should I?”
“Because whatever my father did to you, Khloe did nothing.”
Silence.
“And neither did our child.”
Another pause.
Then Julian gave an address.
A storage facility outside Newark.
“Unit 418.”
“What’s there?”
“Voss’s insurance.”
The line went dead.
Police searched the unit.
Inside were records.
Hundreds.
Birth certificates.
Adoption documents.
Hospital wristbands.
DNA reports.
Cash ledgers.
Photographs.
Adrian spent hours helping investigators identify medical terminology.
Then he found Khloe’s name.
Not on a miscarriage record.
On a transfer ledger.
K. THORNE - F - viable tissue transfer / special handling
Khloe stared.
“What does that mean?”
Adrian’s face was pale.
“It could mean several things.”
“Say the worst.”
He did.
“It could mean the pregnancy continued.”
Khloe began crying.
Marcus crouched beside her.
“Then where is our child?”
Adrian turned the page.
A code appeared.
H-17 / surrogate continuation
Marcus stared.
“Surrogate?”
Adrian explained carefully.
If Khloe had been told the pregnancy ended, an embryo or fetus could not simply be transferred at eleven weeks.
Biologically impossible.
So the notation had to refer to something else.
An embryo.
A separate embryo created during fertility treatment.
Khloe froze.
“We never did IVF.”
“No.”
“Then whose embryo?”
Adrian looked at Marcus.
“Possibly yours.”
Marcus remembered giving genetic samples months before their wedding as part of comprehensive health screening arranged by the Thorne family physician.
Samuel Voss had access.
Khloe whispered:
“So my miscarriage was real?”
“Possibly.”
The relief and grief collided on her face.
“And someone created another baby?”
“Potentially using Marcus’s genetic material.”
Marcus felt violated in a way he had no language for.
Then Adrian turned another page.
A birth date.
Eight months after Khloe’s miscarriage.
Female child.
Code name:
H17-A
Current status:
PLACED
Khloe stared.
“Marcus has a daughter.”
Marcus could not breathe.
“Where?”
No location.
Only initials.
I.R.
Isabella Rossi?
Marcus looked at Adrian.
“No.”
They found another file.
A photograph.
A newborn girl.
Dark hair.
Blue hospital blanket.
On the back:
Amelia - 6 lb 8 oz
Khloe touched the picture.
Marcus stared at the infant.
His daughter?
Maybe.
A child created without his consent?
Potentially.
Then Adrian found the maternal genetic record.
He read it twice.
“What?”
Marcus asked.
Adrian looked at Khloe.
“The egg donor wasn’t Isabella.”
“Who?”
Adrian’s face went white.
“Khloe.”
Silence.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered.
Adrian checked again.
The sample identifier matched blood and tissue collected during Khloe’s miscarriage procedure.
Marcus felt physically ill.
“They stole genetic material from my wife?”
“It appears possible.”
Khloe began shaking.
Marcus held her.
Their first pregnancy had indeed ended.
But during the procedure, someone may have used previously collected reproductive material from both of them to create another embryo.
A daughter.
A secret Thorne heir.
Born months before their current son.
Marcus whispered:
“Amelia.”
Khloe looked at him.
“Our daughter.”
“Potentially.”
“Where is she?”
The police traced I.R.
Not Isabella Rossi.
Infant Residence.
A private childcare property owned by a foundation.
The foundation belonged to—
Eleanor Thorne.
Marcus stared at his mother’s name.
“No.”
Khloe whispered:
“She knew.”
Marcus called Eleanor.
No answer.
They drove to the address.
A large country house in Westchester.
When they arrived, police were already there.
The house was mostly empty.
Children’s furniture.
Toys.
A nursery.
One crib.
On the wall above it:
AMELIA
Khloe broke down.
Marcus held her.
A detective approached.
“Mr. Thorne.”
“Where is she?”
“Nobody was here.”
“Find her.”
“We found security footage.”
“Show me.”
Video from that morning.
Eleanor entered the house.
She lifted a toddler from the crib.
A little girl with dark curls.
Then another man entered.
Marcus expected Voss.
Instead, he saw himself.
Julian.
Eleanor handed the child to him.
Marcus felt betrayal explode through him.
“When?”
“Six this morning.”
“Vehicle?”
“Unregistered SUV.”
“Destination?”
“Unknown.”
Khloe stared at the frozen image.
Her daughter.
Alive.
In Julian’s arms.
Then Marcus’s phone rang.
Julian.
Marcus answered.
“You have my daughter.”
A pause.
Then Julian said:
“No, Marcus.”
His voice was strangely gentle.
“I rescued her.”
“From whom?”
“Mother.”
Marcus looked at Eleanor’s image.
“What did she plan to do?”
Julian answered:
“The same thing she did with me.”
Marcus stopped.
“What?”
May you like
“Make the inconvenient child disappear.”
And somewhere between Manhattan and nowhere, the brother Marcus never knew was alive was holding the daughter Marcus never knew existed.
