Dana found the destination clinic just after noon.
I was sitting at Rachel's dining table helping Emma draw a cat when my phone rang.
“Can you talk privately?”
That question had become its own warning.
I stood.
“Rachel?”
She looked at me.
“Take over?”
She slid into my chair.
Emma frowned.
“You don't draw cats right.”
“Apparently neither does your mother.”
I stepped into the guest room and closed the door.
“What did you find?”
“The female embryo was shipped to Northlake Reproductive Center.”
“Where?”
“Oregon.”
My heart accelerated.
“When?”
“Three years and four months ago.”
“Recipient?”
“We don't have that yet.”
“Who requested the transfer?”
“Richard.”
“How?”
“Through a legal authorization claiming he was acting as trustee for the embryo owners.”
I stared at the wall.
“Trustee?”
“There was supporting documentation.”
“Forged?”
“Possibly fraudulent. We're reviewing it.”
“Did it include my name?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Richard had not simply interfered.
He had invented authority.
“Was the embryo transferred into a patient?”
“We believe so.”
“When?”
“Approximately three weeks after shipment.”
My knees weakened.
“Successful?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
There are moments when your body understands before your mind accepts.
A successful transfer.
Three years ago.
A female embryo.
Mine.
Carter's.
“Was there a birth?”
“We believe there was.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Dana.”
“I need you to stay with me.”
“Was there a child?”
“Yes.”
My free hand covered my mouth.
A girl.
Somewhere.
Approximately three years old.
My genetic daughter.
Carried by another woman without my knowledge.
Another life created from a decision stolen from me.
“What is her name?”
“We don't have verified identity information yet.”
“Who carried her?”
“We're working on that.”
“How do you know there was a birth?”
“Northlake's records show the pregnancy progressed to term.”
I stood again because sitting felt impossible.
“Did Carter know?”
“We don't know.”
“He says he didn't.”
“We'll verify.”
“Did Richard?”
“Yes.”
The certainty in Dana's voice made me cold.
“How?”
“He received copies of the pregnancy updates.”
My stomach turned.
“He followed the pregnancy.”
“Yes.”
“After moving the embryo without my permission.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the child?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Then find out.”
“We are.”
I paced toward the window.
Rain had softened into mist.
The ordinary Seattle neighborhood looked offensively calm.
“Was this another trust scheme?”
“I don't know.”
“A female child wouldn't satisfy the male-beneficiary requirement.”
“Correct.”
“Then why do it?”
“That is the central question.”
I thought of Carter's words.
Removed from consideration.
Not destroyed.
Moved.
Used.
For what?
“Could Richard have been testing the embryo transfer process before using the male embryo?”
“Possible.”
“No.”
I said it immediately.
“What?”
“He wouldn't risk an embryo just to test logistics.”
Dana was silent.
“He cared too much about lineage,” I continued. “There was a reason.”
“Then we find it.”
After the call, I remained in the room for several minutes.
Three years old.
I pictured Emma at three.
Small sneakers.
Sticky fingers.
Questions without endings.
I had missed all of it.
Not because I had chosen adoption.
Not because of tragedy.
Because someone had taken reproductive material created with my body and decided I was irrelevant to what happened next.
The anger was almost physical.
But underneath it was something harder to name.
Grief for a child I had never known existed.
I opened the door.
Rachel looked up immediately.
The girls were still drawing.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“No.”
Chloe heard.
She always heard.
“What happened?”
“Adult stuff.”
She frowned.
“Complicated?”
“Yes.”
She sighed.
“Then it must be bad.”
I almost laughed.
“Finish your picture.”
She studied me but obeyed.
Rachel followed me into the kitchen.
“What?”
I lowered my voice.
“The female embryo became a child.”
Her face emptied.
“What?”
“Three years ago.”
Rachel gripped the counter.
“Lauren.”
“I know.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Who has her?”
“I don't know.”
“Does Carter?”
“He says he knew nothing.”
Rachel's expression hardened.
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe he didn't care enough to ask what happened.”
That was somehow worse.
My phone rang.
Carter.
I stared at his name.
Rachel whispered, “Tell him.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I want to hear what he knows before I give him information.”
I answered.
“Did you find anything?” he asked.
“About what?”
“The female embryo.”
Interesting.
He had been looking.
“Yes.”
My heart accelerated.
“What?”
“Dad had some old records at the office.”
“And?”
“I found a shipment confirmation.”
“To Northlake.”
Silence.
“You already know.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Dana.”
“Of course.”
“What did you find?”
“Not much. Dad's files are incomplete.”
“Convenient.”
“I found invoices.”
“For what?”
“Medical expenses.”
My breath caught.
“When?”
“Over about eleven months.”
Pregnancy.
Delivery.
Possibly postpartum.
“Did you know about this?”
“No.”
“Swear.”
“I swear.”
I did not trust his oath.
But his shock sounded real.
“Lauren, what happened to that embryo?”
I closed my eyes.
“It resulted in a child.”
Silence.
Then:
“What?”
“A girl.”
“What?”
“She's approximately three years old.”
Nothing.
I heard only his breathing.
Then something struck the floor on his end.
“You knew?” he asked.
“Today.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Who has her?”
“I don't know.”
“Why would my father—”
“That is the question.”
Carter sounded physically ill.
“Lauren, I didn't know.”
“I believe you didn't know.”
He exhaled shakily.
“Thank God.”
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Do not turn ignorance into innocence.”
Silence.
“You knew your father had interfered with the embryos. You knew he preserved them without telling me. You knew he tested them. You knew one disappeared. And you never asked.”
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“No, Carter. You're beginning to know.”
He had no answer.
“What were the invoices?” I asked.
“Northlake. An obstetric group. A private hospital.”
“Names?”
“I'll send them.”
“Anything identifying the patient?”
“Initials.”
My body tensed.
“What initials?”
He read them.
M.E.
I wrote them down.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“To your father?”
“I don't know.”
“Search.”
“I am.”
There was movement on his side.
Then silence.
“Carter?”
“Wait.”
I heard papers.
A drawer.
Then his breathing changed.
“What?”
“There are checks.”
“To whom?”
“A woman.”
“Name?”
He paused.
“Marianne Ellis.”
M.E.
“Who is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Search the company records.”
“I am.”
I waited.
Keyboard clicks.
Then nothing.
“Carter.”
“Oh my God.”
My pulse jumped.
“What?”
“She worked for us.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Doing what?”
“Executive administration.”
“For whom?”
Another pause.
“My father.”
Of course.
“How long?”
“Almost twenty years.”
“When did she leave?”
“Three years ago.”
Exactly when the embryo was transferred.
“Why?”
“The file says retirement.”
“How old was she?”
“Forty-six.”
“That's not typical retirement.”
“No.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don't know.”
“Find out.”
“I will.”
Then he said, “Lauren.”
“What?”
“There was a severance agreement.”
“How much?”
He named a number.
I sat down.
Nearly seven figures.
For an executive administrator.
“What reason?”
“Confidential settlement.”
“Settlement for what?”
“Not stated.”
“Date?”
He told me.
One month before the embryo shipment.
My mind began fitting pieces together.
Marianne worked for Richard.
She left suddenly.
Received an enormous confidential payment.
Then my female embryo was sent to an Oregon clinic.
Medical expenses followed for nearly a year.
“What did Richard buy?” I whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
But I knew it was not nothing.
People do not pay that kind of money without wanting control.
“Find the agreement,” I said.
“I'll try.”
“No. Find it.”
We ended the call.
I sent Marianne Ellis's name to Dana.
She responded six minutes later.
Already searching.
At 2:18, Dana called.
Her voice was unusually tense.
“We found Marianne.”
“Where?”
“Outside Portland.”
“Does she have a child?”
“Yes.”
My body went cold.
“A daughter?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Three.”
I closed my eyes.
“Name?”
“Grace.”
One syllable.
Enough to break something inside me.
Grace.
I had a genetic daughter named Grace.
A child I had never held.
“Dana.”
“I'm here.”
“Does Marianne claim she's the mother?”
“She is the gestational mother.”
“Genetic?”
“Based on what we know, no.”
“So Grace is mine.”
“Genetically, likely yes. We need formal confirmation.”
“And Carter's.”
“Yes.”
I sat quietly.
The rain began tapping the window again.
“What relationship does Marianne have with Richard now?”
“We're still investigating.”
“Does she receive money?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Monthly payments from a Sterling family entity.”
My jaw tightened.
“So he is still supporting her.”
“Yes.”
“Or paying for silence.”
“Possibly.”
“What does the birth certificate say?”
Dana paused.
I immediately knew the answer mattered.
“Tell me.”
“Marianne Ellis is listed as the mother.”
“And father?”
“No father listed.”
I closed my eyes.
Richard had arranged a child outside the visible Sterling family.
A granddaughter he apparently financed but did not publicly acknowledge.
Why?
He valued lineage.
Why hide a genetically Sterling child?
Then I remembered something Carter had said.
Richard had once made a mistake trusting appearances.
The hereditary marker.
Kinship testing.
The old family scandal involving Richard's unknown half brother.
A terrible possibility surfaced.
“Dana.”
“Yes?”
“Did Richard ever test Grace?”
“We don't know.”
“Find out.”
“We will.”
“And find out whether the hereditary marker had anything to do with his family.”
There was silence.
Then Dana said, “Lauren, I was about to call you about that.”
My stomach tightened.
“What did you find?”
“Dr. Vale's archived report.”
I stood.
“The geneticist.”
“Yes.”
“What did the report say?”
“The embryos were genetically yours.”
“And Carter's.”
Dana did not answer immediately.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Dana.”
“The report confirmed you as the genetic mother.”
“And Carter?”
Another pause.
“It identified a paternal inconsistency.”
The room went perfectly still.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the embryos were not genetically consistent with Carter being the biological father.”
I stopped breathing.
“That is impossible.”
“I know.”
“They were created from his sample.”
“That is what the clinic record says.”
“Then the test is wrong.”
“Maybe.”
“Or the sample was switched.”
“Possible.”
My thoughts scattered.
Chloe.
Emma.
The embryos.
Richard's panic.
The kinship analysis.
“Was Richard genetically related to the embryos?”
Dana said nothing.
I closed my eyes.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We need additional testing before drawing a final conclusion.”
“Dana.”
“The report suggests the paternal DNA came from the Sterling family line.”
“But not Carter.”
“Correct.”
My hand went numb around the phone.
There were only so many explanations.
I whispered, “Who?”
“We don't know yet.”
But Richard had known for years.
He had known when he paid to keep the embryos stored.
He had known when he secretly transferred one.
He had known when he helped arrange another pregnancy.
And suddenly his obsession with controlling those embryos looked different.
Not simply like a grandfather protecting future heirs.
Like a man protecting evidence.
I looked through the doorway at Chloe and Emma.
Two daughters whose father I had always believed was Carter.
The question entered my mind before I could stop it.
If the embryos had not been genetically Carter's—
then whose children had I been raising?
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Genetic Report Ruled Carter Out as the Embryos’ Father, but One Missing Sample Number Pointed Back to the Sterling Family
Five Minutes After the Judge Ended Our Marriage, Carter Told Me Exactly What Our Daughters Were Worth to Him
Part 8 of 35
